THE  HONOR  OF 
HIS  HOUSE 


BY 


ANDREW  SOUTAR; 


G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


ENTERED  FOR  COPYRIGHT,  FEBROART  ti;  1915 

UNDER  THE  TITLE  OF 

CHARITY  CORNER 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BY 
G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY 

UNDER  THE  TITLE  OF 

THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 


CONTENTS 


PART  I 

CHAPTER  PAG* 

I.    THE  HOPE  OF  THE  FAMILY         .....  5 

II.    THE  MACWHINNIE  STRAIN       .....  14 

III.  THE  MEETING  WITH  MARGARET  DRENDER  ...  22 

IV.  "AE  FOND  Kiss"         .......  30 

V.    MRS.  MACWHINNIE  WRITES  A  LETTER     ...  35 

VI.    MILLSTONES          ........  42 

VII.    CHARITY  CORNER         .......  54 

VIII.    THE  WAY  BACK         .......  61 

IX.    MASTER  AND  MAN       .......  74 

X.    TEARS  BEHIND  THE  SMILES       .....  84 

XI.    TEMPERAMENT      ........  92 

XII.    PAINTED  HOURS  ........  103 

XIII.  AT  THE  HOUSE  OF  A  THOUSAND  JOYS       .       .       .116 

XIV.  A  SERMON  ON  THE  VERANDA      .....  126 
XV.    UNDEFINED  HOPES       .......  136 

XVI.    GOD'S  PLEASURE  ........  143 

XVII.    THE  BURDEN-BEARER  .......  146 

XVIII.  A  TEST  —  AND  A  DISAPPOINTMENT  ....  150 

XIX.     SANCTUARY          ........  159 

PART  II 

I.    THE  PILLAR  OF  THE  HOUSE      .....  167 

IL    "MACWHINNIE  BROTHERS"        .....  185 
18 


4  CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

III.  SYMPATHY 199 

IV.  WEAK  LINKS 204 

V.  THE  TOUCH  OF  A  CHILD 213 

VI.  SISTER  MARGARET 225 

VII.  THE  DIVIDED  HOUSE 230 

VIII.  AT  "JARROWSIDE" 244 

IX.  THE  WEAKER  SEX 254 

X.  THE  STRENGTH  OF  PRIDE 260 

XI.  WHERE  DUTY  ENDS 280 

XII.  A  NIGHT  OF  CONFIDENCES 292 

XIII.  DICK  MORROW'S  GOOD-BY 310 

XIV.  OUT  OF  BONDAGE 316 

XV.  THE  PRODIGAL  BROTHERS 326 

XVL  TO-MOBROW 333 


THE  HONOR  OF 
HIS    HOUSE 

PART  ONE 

CHAPTER   I 

THE  HOPE  OF  THE  FAMILY 

IN  the  first  place,  I  plead  for  the  woman  in  this 
story — the  woman  who  erred.  She  was  just  an 
ordinary  woman,  without  much  time  for  leisure 
or  cultivation;  but  there  was  a  desire  for  develop- 
ment. She  had  ideals,  as  all  women  have,  no  matter 
what  their  station  in  life,  but  her  ideals  were  not  clear- 
ly definable;  she  was  ambitious  without  having  any 
avowed  objective.  Her  greatest  need  was  sympathy. 
The  craving  for  sympathy  overwhelmed  her ;  the  long- 
ing for  sanctuary  from  what  she  believed  to  be  the  op- 
pressive was  too  insistent  to  give  the  more  rational 
faculties  an  opportunity  to  exert  themselves  and  save 
her.  The  sanctuary  she  sought  has  been  found  by 
thousands  of  misunderstood  women — and  the  world  is 
full  of  that  class ;  but  in  her  case  there  was  Interposi- 
tion— the  sanctuary  was  denied. 

In  the  second  place,  I  plead  in  behalf  of  the  man, 

5 


THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 


whose  line  of  conduct  may  meet  with  the  criticism,  if 
not  the  stern  disapproval,  of  many.  He  is  not  ad- 
vanced as  a  martyr,  as  a  Quixote,  as  a  Galahad,  or 
anything  very  ethereal ;  it  is  not  suggested  that  he  was 
so  broad-minded  that  all  the  rest  of  the  world  was 
cramped  and  crushed  by  comparison.  But  if  it  is  to  be 
argued  that  his  line  of  action  was  irrational,  it  can- 
not be  advanced  that  it  was  pseudo-heroic. 

Among  my  notes  on  the  character  of  Robert  Mac- 
Whinnie,  the  man  on  whom  the  burden  of  the  woman 
fell,  I  find  that  I  have  written  this : 

"To  die  for  another  is  not  the  sublimest  form  of 
self-sacrifice :  the  giving  up  of  breath  is  not  all  that  is 
implied  in  that  most  beautiful  expression  of  Christian 
thought — 'Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  he 
lay  down  his  life  for  his  friends.' ' 

There  may  be  circumstances,  as  in  the  case  of 
Robert  MacWhinnie,  whose  life  story  is  here  set  forth, 
when  to  go  on  living  for  others  requires  greater  cour- 
age than  to  die  for  them.  Perhaps  the  Reward  is 
greater. 

As  I  write,  I  have  before  me  a  mind-picture  of 
Robert  MacWhinnie  as  I  knew  him.  He  was  the 
kind  of  man  to  whom  one  looks,  intuitively,  to  bear 
the  burdens  of  other  people — strong-featured  and  yet 
wondrously  tender  in  expression;  almost  before  he 
reached  his  twenties  his  temples  were  grayed;  the 
eyes  showed  the  insatiable  ambition  of  the  man;  the 
inexpressible  softness  of  the  voice  was  evidence  of 
the  absence  of  ambition's  usual  concomitant — prag- 
matism. Nature  had  endowed  him  with  great  physical 
strength,  else  he  might  never  have  achieved  the  prodi- 


THE  HOPE  OF  THE  FAMILY 


gious  tasks  to  which  he  set  his  hand.  When  he  was  a 
boy  his  hair  was  deep  brown  in  color,  somewhat  thin, 
always  untidy ;  in  manhood  his  face  was  kept  smooth, 
so  that  the  strong  lines  of  the  mouth  were  probably 
accentuated.  Had  there  been  any  pronounced  weak- 
ness in  his  character,  he  would  never  have  survived 
the  prejudices  in  his  favor  as  a  boy,  for  always  he  was 
hailed  as  the  clever  one  of  the  family,  the  one  on 
whom  the  hopes  of  the  MacWhinnies  were  based. 
The  family  came  to  lean  on  him. 

The  MacWhinnies — Donald  and  his  wife  and  five 
children — came  south  from  the  banks  of  the  Clyde 
when  the  youngest  member  of  the  family  was  four 
years  of  age.  They  came  down  the  North  Sea  in  a 
cargo-boat,  that  being  the  cheapest  form  of  travel,  and 
when  they  disembarked  at  Rotherhithe  the  wealth  of 
Donald  MacWhinnie  was  twenty  pounds  in  gold,  and 
the  most  cherished  of  his  prejudices  a  deep-seated  con- 
tempt for  the  Sassenach.  The  MacWhinnies  were 
friendless  when  they  arrived;  they  came  without  let- 
ters of  recommendation — without  the  backing  of  suf- 
ficient influence  to  gain  the  father  a  private  interview 
with  the  meanest  foreman  of  the  meanest  ironworks 
on  the  Thames;  they  came  without  any  prospect  of 
doing  better  than  in  Ballyhoustie,  where,  at  least,  they 
had  the  sympathy  of  accent.  The  natural  question  is : 
Why  did  the  MacWhinnies,  having  no  prospects,  come 
to  England  ?  And  the  only  reply  is  another  question : 
Why  do  Scotsmen  leave  their  native  country? 

The  cargo-boat  reached  the  Thames  an  hour  before 
daybreak,  and  such  was  the  amazing  industry  of 
Donald  MacWhinnie  and  his  wife  that  before  night- 


8  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

fall  the  family  was  occupying  half  a  furnished  house 
in  Rotherhithe.  They  might  have  been  comfortably 
installed  by  midday,  but  for  the  innate  caution  of 
Donald  and  an  unfortunate  sixpence  which  the  land- 
lord of  the  house  insisted  on  having  as  part  of  the 
rent,  and  which  Donald  insisted  on  denouncing  as  ex- 
tortionate. At  five  o'clock  the  following  morning 
Jean,  the  second  child  and  only  daughter,  brewed  a 
pot  of  tea  for  her  father  by  holding  a  can  of  water 
over  a  gas-jet.  The  little  man — Donald  was  very 
short  of  stature — watched  the  girl  with  admiring  eyes 
as  she  moved  briskly  about  the  "foreign  hoose,"  as 
she  called  it. 

"Jean,  ma  bonnie  lass,"  he  said  to  her,  as  he  laced 
his  boots,  "dinna  let  y'r  mither  worrit;  and  if  th'  lad- 
dies at  the  door  should  ca'  ye  'Scotty/  tak'  nae  heed." 

Jean  was  thirteen  years  of  age;  she  could  look 
twenty  on  occasions,  and  this  was  one  of  them. 

"They'll  no  ca'  me  'Scotty'  twice,  faither.  .  .  . 
When'llyebeback?" 

"Six  to-night,  as  like  as  not." 

"The  man!"  Jean  fetched  a  deep  sigh  of  well- 
feigned  wonder.  "Ye  talk  as  though  ye  had  the 
wor-r-k  to  gae  tae." 

"I  didna  lam  ma  trade  on  the  Clyde  for  naethin'." 
He  stamped  his  toes  well  into  his  boots  and  braced 
his  shoulders  with  a  flourish.  Jean  watched  him 
closely. 

"Ye' re  awf'y  conceited,  faither." 

"Hae  I  nowt  tae  be  conceited  aboot,  Jean?"  he 
asked.  "Did  ye  ever  know  y'r  faither  beaten?" 


THE  HOPE  OF  THE  FAMILY 


Jean  brushed  the  wisps  of  brown  hair  from  the  cor- 
ners of  her  eyes,  and  raised  her  face  to  be  kissed. 

At  six-thirty  Donald  MacWhinnie  was  leaning 
against  the  jamb  of  an  engine-room  door.  His  small 
eyes,  looking  from  under  a  bush  of  eyebrows,  were 
twinkling  contemptuously;  the  short,  stubby  beard 
seemed  to  enjoy  the  caress  of  the  fingers.  Inside,  half 
a  dozen  engineers  were  cursing  the  stubbornness  of  a 
silent  donkey-engine.  The  foreman  turned  a  grease- 
splashed  face  in  Donald's  direction,  and  was  obvi- 
ously grateful  for  the  timely  appearance  of  something 
on  which  he  could  expend  a  little  of  the  pent-up  fury 
with  which  he  was  consumed.  Donald  merely  smiled 
at  the  flow  of  invective;  he  didn't  budge. 

"It's  an  engineer  ye  want,"  said  Donald,  infusing 
reproach  into  his  voice.  "An'  I'm  looking  for  a  job." 

The  foreman  cast  some  bitter  aspersions  on  the 
land  and  race  to  which  Donald  belonged,  and,  having 
done  what  he  believed  to  be  his  duty  in  that  direction, 
inquired  of  the  little  man  if  he  knew  anything  about 
donkey-engines. 

"I've  built  them,"  said  Donald— "hundreds  of 
them." 

"Take  your  coat  off,"  said  the  foreman  by  way  of 
invitation. 

Donald  removed  his  coat  and  approached  the  sullen 
engine. 

"I  served  ma  trade  on  the  Clyde,"  he  said  proudly; 
then,  surveying  those  standing  around :  "Wull  ye  get 
rid  o'  yer  friends  here  and  let  me  have  a  couple  o' 
laborers  ?" 

Within  half  an  hour  the  engine  was  running  freely, 


10  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

and  Donald  MacWhinnie  was  standing  at  a  lathe  in 
the  ironworks  of  Drender,  Masters  and  Co.  He  re- 
mained a  servant  of  the  company  until  those  with 
whom  he  had  labored  on  the  Clyde  were  mere  mem- 
ories. He  never  attained  greater  prominence  in  the 
eyes  of  his  masters  than  "the  man  who  stepped  in  at 
the  right  moment  to  correct  the  faults  of  half  a  dozen 
engineers" ;  he  derived  no  greater  joy  from  the  record 
of  personal  achievement  than  the  thrill  which  came, 
even  in  his  declining  years,  of  the  reminiscent :  "Did 
ye  ever  hear  o'  the  first  day  I  cam'  to  Drender's,  an' 
th'  donkey-engine  that  ..."  But  he  brought  up  his 
family  step  by  step,  and  the  romance — or  tragedy — 
that  was  destined  to  weave  its  way  through  the  history 
of  the  MacWhinnies  did  not  owe  its  inception  to  any 
recognized  flaw  in  the  code  by  which  he  governed 
and  was  governed. 

The  early  days  were  hard  to  fight  through,  and, 
to  be  generous,  one  may  ascribe  the  narrowness  of 
outlook,  the  smallness  of  the  point  of  view,  the — the 
selfishness  of  later  days,  to  those  early  struggles.  Cer- 
tainly, Mrs.  MacWhinnie  never  forgot  what  she  had 
been  through;  never — not  even  when  affluence  be- 
came the  portion  of  the  family  through  the  genius 
of  Robert,  the  second  son — would  she  consent  to  live 
in  the  present ;  the  memories  of  hoarding  and  scraping 
when  the  children  were  young  refused  to  be  eradicated 
by  the  knowledge  of  acquired  wealth — and  the  dis- 
position to  hoard  and  scrape  and  keep  at  bay  those 
who,  she  argued,  would  not  have  "spiered"  her  in  the 
beginning,  clung  to  her  to  the  very  end.  Donald,  the 
father,  was  more  philosophic,  and  although  he  would 


THE  HOPE  OF  THE  FAMILY  11 

never  abate  his  claim  to  having  inspired  the  genius  of 
Robert,  he  was  content  to  take  what  the  genius  of 
Robert  brought  him,  and  thank  God  for  it. 

It  was  in  accordance  with  tradition  that  the  hopes 
of  the  Mac  Whinnies  came  to  be  reposed  in  Robert. 
The  head  of  the  house  having  established  himself  in 
the  firm  of  Drender,  Masters  and  Co.,  his  boys  fol- 
lowed into  the  works  as  a  natural  sequence.  Thomas, 
the  eldest  son,  a  moody,  unsociable  fellow,  with  a 
fondness  for  trying  to  understand  literature  that  was 
not  rightly  understood  by  those  who  wrote  it,  was  a 
fitter's  laborer.  James,  the  third  son,  went  into  the 
offices  as  a  clerk;  David,  the  youngest,  was  a  boy 
about  the  works,  with  a  promise  that  one  day  he  should 
be  put  on  a  lathe  like  his  father.  Robert  MacWhinnie, 
the  second  son,  attracted  the  attention  of  Mr.  John 
Drender  from  the  very  first.  He  summoned  the  father 
to  his  private  office. 

"MacWhinnie,"  he  said,  "that  boy  of  yours — Robert 
- — he's  worth  looking  after." 

The  little  man  nodded  in  the  manner  of  one  who 
gives  thanks  for  nothing. 

"I  ken  that  weel,  Mr.  Drender — he's  a  son  o'  his 
faither." 

"A  remarkably  intelligent  boy,"  said  the  ironmas- 
ter, ignoring  the  turning  of  the  phrase.  "And  if  I 
were  you  I  should  give  him  every  encouragement." 

MacWhinnie  struck  an  attitude. 

"His  grandfaither — my  faither — laid  the  keel  of  the 
finest  boat  that  ever  left  the  Clyde." 

"He's  much  too  clever  to  be  at  the  beck  and  call  of 


12  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

second-class  engineers  in  the  shop,  MacWhinnie.  You 
should  apprentice  him." 

"I'm  no  an  ironmaster." 

"And  he  should  be  given  an  opportunity  to  attend 
night-schools,  so  that  he  might  benefit  from  the  wis- 
dom of  those  who  are  most  likely  to  help  him." 

"That  costs  money,  Mr.  Drender,  and  I'm  still  at 
the  lathe." 

"If  you're  a  true  Scot,  MacWhinnie,  you  won't  ask 
the  assistance  of  outsiders  to  give  your  boy  the  chance 
he  deserves." 

Donald  inflated  his  lungs  and  dared  to  scowl. 

"It  wull  be  time,  when  I  ask  it,  sir,  to  question  my 
nationality." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Drender.  "Do  your  best  for 
the  boy ;  he'll  repay  you." 

And  that  night,  after  the  family  had  retired,  Donald 
MacWhinnie  and  his  wife  discussed  the  future  of 
Robert,  the  second  son.  They  decided  that  he  should 
have  all  the  assistance  the  other  members  of  the  family 
could  give  him.  They  were  satisfied  in  their  hearts 
that  he  would  justify  the  sacrifices  to  be  made  in  his 
behalf.  It  would  mean  a  little  more  scraping,  and  the 
other  sons  would  have  to  subordinate  their  ambitions 
to  those  of  Robert.  These  two  parents  approached 
their  subject  with  the  inborn  deliberateness  that  is 
peculiarly  Scottish;  they  argued  and  reasoned  and 
asked  God's  blessing  on  their  decision ;  and  in  the  end 
Mrs.  MacWhinnie  said,  with  a  sigh  that  carried  her 
over  the  intervening  distance  to  her  native  Bally- 
houstie : 

"Donald,  if  it's  a'  for  the  best,  so  be  it;  but  some- 


THE  HOPE  OF  THE  FAMILY  IS 

times  I  wonder  if  bairns  are  the  blessin'  some  wad  hae 
ye  believe.  Ye  gae  through  the  Valley  o'  the  Shadow 
to  bring  them  into  the  wor-rld,  ye  wor-rk  and  ye  slave 
for  them  when  they're  bairns,  and  when  they're 
growed  up  they  gae  awa' — the  lassie  wi'  th'  first  laddie 
that  sets  his  cap  at  her,  an'  th'  laddie  wi'  th'  first 
pair  o'  blue  een  that  looks  at  him." 

And  Donald  stroked  the  ends  of  his  reddish-gray 
beard  and  said: 

"Mebbe,  Martha,  lass;  but  wull  ye  tell  me  how 
much  has  a  parent  a  richt  to  expect  f  rae  her  bairns  ?" 


CHAPTER    II 

THE  MACWHINNIE  STRAIN 

THE  romance  of  Robert,  the  second  son  of  Don- 
ald MacWhinnie,  is  not  the  romance  of  the  boy 
who  commences  life  with  every  conceivable 
handicap.  Considering  the  environment  of  the  Mac- 
Whinnie family,  and  the  tendencies  of  the  age  at  that 
time,  it  may  be  said,  without  denying  him  full  credit 
for  all  that  he  achieved,  that  he  started  on  the  long 
road  to  greatness  with  everything  in  his  favor.  In 
the  first  place,  he  was  a  MacWhinnie,  and  Donald,  his 
father,  never  lost  an  opportunity  to  impress  on  the 
young  man's  mind  the  incalculableness  of  that  asset. 
Robert  was  eighteen  years  of  age  when  his  little 
father  took  him  aside  to  speak  with  pride  of  the  Mac- 
Whinnies  who  had  gone  before.  By  this  time  the 
family  was  comfortably  settled  in  a  comfortably  fur- 
nished home  overlooking  the  river.  Like  most  Scots, 
Donald  had  some  sense  of  the  dramatic.  He  knew 
how  to  obtain  the  greatest  effect  by  the  subtle  arrange- 
ment of  simple  episode,  and  so,  in  seeking  to  impress 
his  second  son  with  the  importance  of  the  MacWhin- 
nie  line,  he  commenced  with  a  little  word-picture  of 
the  scene  at  Rotherhithe  that  morning  when  Robert 
and  his  brothers  and  sister  disembarked  from  the 
cargo-boat. 

14- 


THE  MACWHINNIE  STRAIN  15 

"Some  men,"  said  the  little  man,  resting  his  hands 
on  his  son's  shoulders,  "would  hae  been  dismayed 
because  there  was  nae  welcome  for  them.  We'd  on'y 
twenty  pounds  amang  us ;  but  we  had  brains — at  least, 
one  of  us  had.  But  what  was  more  valuable  than 
onything  was  the  knowledge  that,  not  so  many  years 
before,  the  name  of  Angus  MacWhinnie  was  always 
mentioned  when  a  boat  crossed  the  Clyde.  It's  a  gran' 
thing,  Robert,  to  be  able  to  say  to  the  wor-rld  that 
one  o'  your  forebears  did  something  for  it  for  which 
the  world  ought  to  be  etarnally  grateful.  The  fact 
that  Donald  MacWhinnie,  your  faither,  is  just  an  engi- 
neer amang  engineers,  can't  rob  ye  o'  the  glory  o* 
being  the  great-grandson  of  Angus  MacWhinnie,  the 
finest  man  that  ever  crossed  the  Border.  It  doesna 
concern  me  a  bit  that  Angus  MacWhinnie's  family  left 
nae  mair  than  was  requisite  to  bury  them — and  I 
dinna  suppose  it  disturbs  them  noo.  They  were  a 
gran'  family,  wi'  just  one  weakness,  which  those  that 
cam'  after  endeavored  to  eradicate  from  the  race. 
Sometimes  I  feel  awf'y  ashamed  of  that  weakness,  but 
the  years  have  softened  the  blow.  Angus  MacWhin- 
nie and  his  brithers  took  more  money  out  o'  the  Clyde 
than  any  firm  I  can  think  of,  and  just  because  of  that 
weakness  of  theirs  they  got  rid  of  it.  It  was  always 
said  of  the  MacWhinnies  that  in  every  family  there 
was  one  fool,  one  who  had  no  richt  to  be  called  a  true 
Scot,  one  who  would  gae  out  o'  his  way  on  some  mad 
enterprise  to  help  one  who  was  nae  mair  than  a 
stranger  to  him.  Blood  is  thicker  than  water,  Robert. 
Dinna  forget  that.  And  charity  begins  in  y'r  ain 
hame,  amang  those  who  hae  suffered  and  worked  for 


16 


ye.  It  was  Angus  MacWhinnie  who  went  back  on  his 
breeding,  and  poured  his  hard-earned  money  into  the 
coffers  of  a  meeserable  little  state  away  on  the  Pacific 
somewhere.  I've  ne'er  ta'en  the  trouble  to  find  out  if 
the  state  is  on  the  map,  or  if  they  ever  thanked  Angus 
MacWhinnie  for  ignoring  the  just  claims  of  those  who 
were  bound  to  come  after  him.  It  might  hae  been  a 
gran'  thing  to  do,  but  it  wasna  Scottish.  Up  in  my 
oak  locker  ye'll  find  a  piece  o'  parchment,  and  a  medal 
wi'  a  couple  o'  ribbons  tied  tae  it.  They  represent  the 
gratitude  of  the  little  state.  That's  a'  the  MacWhin- 
nies  got  out  o'  it.  Mind  ye,  it's  something  to  be  proud 
of — to  feel  that  ye  might  meet  a  royal  personage  driv- 
ing through  the  streets  in  all  his  pomp  and  vanity,  and 
be  able  to  say,  'If  it  hadna  been  for  the  MacWhinnies 
ye  might  be  standing  at  an  old-fashioned  lathe  in  an 
engineer's  shop.'  Ye'll  be  going  out  into  the  world 
before  long,  Robert,  an'  th'  greatness  o'  th'  Mac- 
Whinnies  o'  the  past  should  be  a  spur.  When  ony- 
body  mentions  the  Clyde,  up  ye  jump  an'  say,  T'm  a 
MacWhinnie.'  There'll  be  nae  need  to  say  vera  much 
about  your  faither.  Remember,  too,  that  we  hae  erad- 
icated that  weakness  of  which  I  spoke  a  minute  ago, 
and  that  the  MacWhinnies,  no  matter  what  their  cir- 
cumstances, are  chiels  amang  men.  Be  just  to  yersel' 
and  your  family,  and  ye'll  be  just  to  your  fellows  out- 
side the  house.  Sin'  Angus  MacWhinnie  made  a  fule 
of  himsel'  there  has  been  nae  record  against  the  name 
of  which  ony  o'  us  need  be  ashamed.  Honor  is  a  gran' 
word,  Robert,  and  'Honor  First'  has  been  the  motto  of 
the  MacWhinnies  frae  the  time  when  the  first  Mac- 
Whinnie is  mentioned  in  history." 


THE  MACWHINNIE  STRAIN 


Which  was  a  great  deal  for  a  man  like  Donald  Mac- 
[Whinnie  to  say,  but  no  one  could  have  been  more  ap- 
preciative of  the  opportunity  of  saying  it. 

Then,  again,  Robert,  the  hope  of  the  family,  had 
the  assistance  of  his  brothers  and  his  sister  in  prepar- 
ing for  his  long  journey  to  greatness.  Perhaps  the 
little  sacrifices  which  they  were  called  on  to  make  were 
impregnated  with  selfishness.  Bluntly  —  Jean  must  not 
be  included  in  this,  for  her  love  for  her  brother  Robert 
was  very  near  to  idolatry,  as  was  his  for  her  —  -bluntly, 
the  elder  brother,  Thomas,  and  the  younger  brothers, 
James  and  David,  contributed  to  the  advancement  of 
Robert  in  the  spirit  of  those  who  finance  a  prodigy  — 
in  the  hope  and  belief  that  the  investment  would  show 
a  handsome  profit  in  the  end.  There  was  no  sus- 
picion of  jealousy  in  the  minds  of  the  other  boys. 
From  the  first  they  were  ready  to  admit  that  Robert 
had  the  brains  of  the  family.  Even  Thomas,  the 
eldest  son,  showed  no  resentment  at  being  passed 
over,  and  this  is  all  the  more  remarkable  from  the 
fact  that  he  had  imbibed  the  teachings  of  the  acknowl- 
edged authorities  on  Socialism.  A  brooding,  sullen 
fellow  was  Thomas,  who  never  gave  any  sign  that 
he  would  rise  above  the  comparative  ignominy  of 
being  an  unskilled  laborer.  He  was  twenty-one  when 
Robert  entered  upon  his  eighteenth  year.  The  other 
boys  were  aged  thirteen  and  eleven  respectively. 

The  word  "sacrifice"  may  strike  one  as  being  rather 
strained  in  the  circumstances,  because  the  members 
of  this  family  had  so  little  to  sacrifice.  Still,  it  is 
only  fair  to  assume  that  they  relinquished  any  am- 
bition that  they  might  have  had  when  they  combined 


18  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

to  give  Robert  the  great  chance.  Again,  there  were 
night-school  fees  to  be  paid,  and  in  order  to  attend 
demonstrations  and  lectures  it  was  necessary  that 
Robert  should  be  clad  a  little  above  his  station.  It 
was  during  these  studies  that  the  beautiful  love  of 
Jean  for  her  brother  was  most  exemplified.  The 
little  girl  with  wispy  brown  hair  and  an  accent  that 
reminded  one  of  the  sharp  edges  of  a  broken  flint 
had  developed  into  a  handsome  woman  of  twenty,  and 
the  accent  had  died  gradually  away  until  only  the 
faintest  burr  remained.  While  there  had  never  been 
any  rupture  within  the  family  circle,  it  was  only  in 
Robert  that  Jean  found  the  sympathy  for  which  she 
hungered,  and  the  encouraging  of  his  hopes  was  the 
swelling  of  her  own.  Contrary  to  the  usual  condition 
of  things  when  there  is  only  one  girl  child  in  the  fam- 
ily, there  was  a  pitiable  lack  of  understanding  be- 
tween Mrs.  MacWhinnie  and  her  daughter.  It  was 
in  her  sons  that  Mrs.  MacWhinnie  lived;  she  seemed 
unable  to  forgive  Jean  for  growing  up  without  en- 
countering the  hardships  which  she  herself  had  been 
compelled  to  face.  Jean,  she  appeared  to  think,  had 
in  some  degree  drifted  from  the  family  by  reason 
of  her  lack  of  accent  and  her  tendency  to  appreciate 
and  assimilate  English  customs. 

In  the  circumstances,  then,  the  great  love  that  ex- 
isted between  Jean  and  Robert  was  not  surprising. 
She  was  a  clever,  thoughtful  girl.  Robert  used  to 
say  that,  had  she  been  a  boy,  the  hopes  of  the  Mac- 
Whinnies  could  never  have  been  misplaced.  These 
two  studied  together — or,  rather,  Robert  was  never 
able  to  concentrate  his  thoughts  on  his  work  unless 


THE  MACWHINNIE  STRAIN  19 

Jean  were  on  the  other  side  of  the  table.  She  read  to 
him;  she  prepared  his  papers;  the  pencils  were  al- 
ways sharpened  by  her;  pens  were  never  out  of  place 
when  he  needed  them.  His  desk,  in  the  top  back 
room,  was  a  model  of  preparedness.  And  his  crea- 
ture comforts,  too,  were  studied  by  her.  Quietly, 
unostentatiously,  she  performed  for  him  a  thousand 
and  one  little  functions  that  made  life  all  the  smoother 
for  him.  There  were  many  little  dishes  which  only 
he  could  appreciate;  it  was  Jean  who  prepared  them. 
He  had  many  moods,  which  sometimes  came  peril- 
ously near  to  disturbing  the  serenity  of  the  house- 
hold, but  Jean  always  understood  them  and  was  ready 
with  an  excuse.  It  was  to  Jean  that  Robert  outlined 
his  ambitions,  and  those  hours  when  they  sat  together 
in  the  top  back  room,  one  on  each  side  of  the  table, 
and  he  allowed  his  imagination  to  carry  him  far  afield 
— they  were  the  happiest  hours  of  Jean's  life. 

There  was  an  atmosphere  of  delightful  tranquillity 
in  that  top  back  room,  with  its  gently  sloping  ceiling 
and  broad  roof  window  that  took  in  sky  and  river. 
The  furnishing  was  of  the  simplest,  but  the  touch  of 
the  sympathetic  woman  was  on  everything.  Jean  had 
a  pronounced  sense  of  the  artistic,  although  it  was 
only  in  Robert's  room  that  she  was  allowed  to  exercise 
it.  Always  there  were  flowers,  but  the  colors  were 
never  out  of  harmony  with  the  fixtures;  they  were 
part  of  the  tranquillity,  as  it  were.  No  matter  how 
fatiguing  the  day  had  been,  Robert  found  rest  in  the 
little  room;  no  matter  how  disturbed  his  mind  had 
been  by  human  or  other  elements,  there  was  always  a 
soothing  influence  the  moment  he  crossed  the  threshold 


20  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

and  came  to  rest  on  the  ottoman  near  the  window, 
or  the  cavernous  basket  chair  at  the  fireplace.  The 
most  even-tempered  of  men  are  not  without  their  mo- 
ments of  bitterness  when  the  spirit  of  retaliation  cries 
insistently  for  expression;  but  in  the  corner  near  the 
window,  with  Jean  opposite  him,  and  the  low,  pathetic 
calling  of  the  steamers  in  his  ears,  the  bitterness  was 
forgotten ;  her  gentle,  "Let's  be  charitable,  Rob,"  soft- 
ened his  thoughts  of  those  who  had  affronted,  and  in  a 
little  while  brother  and  sister  had  soared  high  above 
the  turmoil  of  the  river  and  the  city  beyond,  and 
were  resting  on  the  silver  turrets  of  their  castles  in 
the  clouds.  When  the  knots  of  the  engineering 
problems  refused  to  be  undone  at  the  square  deal  table 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  the  two  closed  the  books, 
and  stole  into  the  corner — "to  give  the  mind  a  bit 
rest,"  as  she  said  coaxingly.  It  was  Jean  who  chris- 
tened the  alcove  "Charity  Corner,"  following  that  oft- 
repeated  plea  of  hers,  "Let's  be  charitable,"  and  his 
cheery  response:  "Ay,  Jean,  for  there's  awf'y  little 
charity  in  the  world  outside." 

In  the  days  of  sadness  that  were  to  come — when  the 
burden  he  had  taken  on  his  broad  shoulders  weighed 
him  down  until  his  heart  was  nigh  to  bursting — the 
memory  of  those  hours  in  "Charity  Corner"  came  like 
an  invisible  hand  to  soothe  him  in  his  grief.  .  .  .  Her 
elbows  rested  on  the  table,  her  chin  was  supported 
by  her  hands,  her  big,  encouraging  eyes  were  dwelling 
lovingly  on  his  face. 

"Jean,"  he  would  say,  breaking  off  from  his  studies 
to  grasp  her  hand  across  the  table,  "it's  tough  work, 
but  I'll  never  give  in." 


THE  MACWHINNIE  STRAIN  21 

"  'Deed,  no,  Robert.  It's  not  like  you  even  to  talk 
of  giving  in." 

"I'm  going  to  win,  Jean." 

"Who  could  doubt  it?" 

"And  half  the  credit  will  be  yours.  I  could  never 
have  done  what  I  have  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you." 

"And  now  you're  havering,  Robert." 

"It's  true,   Jean." 

And  then  that  oft-repeated  cry  of  his  when,  in  im- 
agination, he  had  completed  some  stupendous  feat  of 
engineering  skill  that  would  startle  the  world :  "Jean, 
you  do  believe  in  me,  don't  you?"  And  her  tender, 
"Ay,  Rob,  I  do." 


CHAPTER   III 

THE  MEETING  WITH  MARGARET  DRENDER 

SMILE  indulgently  on  those  cold  cynics  who  sneer 
at  the  suggestion  of  love  at  first  sight,  who 
urge  that  it  is  but  the  folly  of  the  immature. 
Robert  MacWhinnie  fell  in  love  the  first  time  his 
eyes  rested  on  Margaret  Drender,  the  daughter  of 
the  principal  in  the  firm  of  Drender,  Masters  and 
Co.,  and  the  story  of  the  love,  the  wooing,  serves  to 
emphasize  the  argument  that  when  he  went  out  into 
the  world  to  make  the  fortunes  of  the  MacWhinnies 
he  went  under  the  most  inspiriting  of  conditions.  It 
came  to  him,  that  love,  in  a  wave  that  enveloped  him, 
uplifting  even  as  it  enveloped.  Before,  the  road 
ahead  was  cast  about  with  stones;  there  were  pits  to 
be  crossed,  hills  to  traverse,  and  the  only  incentive 
was  the  joy  of  realizing  the  hopes  of  those  who  had 
pinned  their  faith  to  the  natural  gifts  that  had  been 
given  him.  This  love  inspired  him  as  nothing  else 
had  done;  the  long  road  caught  the  rays  of  the  sun, 
the  pits  were  blotted  out,  the  hills  were  made  to  ap- 
pear as  ant-heaps. 

The  two  met,  for  the  first  time,  in  Mr.  Drender's 
study,  whither  Robert  had  been  invited  by  the  iron- 
master to  elucidate  the  plans  of  an  invention  on  which 
the  young  man  had  labored  many  months.  Mr.  Dren- 

22 


'MEETING  WITH  MARGARET  DRENDER       23 

der  himself  had  shown  Robert  a  great  deal  more  sym- 
pathy than  he  gained  at  home,  but  while  encouraging 
him  to  prosecute  his  studies  with  zeal  and  ambition, 
he  had  never  hesitated  to  play  the  part  of  critic.  On 
this  night,  when  Robert  was  admitted  into  the  pri- 
vacy of  his  employer's  house,  he  had  dressed  himself 
with  scrupulous  care;  Jean,  with  the  fussiness  of  a 
valet,  superintended  the  setting  of  his  necktie,  the 
hang  of  his  coat,  the  gleam  of  his  shoes.  The  plans 
were  carried  in  a  leathern  wallet,  and  his  air  was 
that  of  a  man  who  has  mastered  at  least  one  of  the 
problems  of  the  age.  Jean,  reading  him  as  easily  as 
she  would  an  open  book,  and  fearing  for  his  peace 
of  mind  if  Mr.  Drender  should  overthrow  his  high 
spirit  by  curt  and  ill-considered  phrase,  sought  rightly 
to  prepare  him  for  the  interview. 

"They  tell  me,  Robert,  that  he's  terribly  short  with 
his  words,  but  he  means  well.  Take  his  'yes'  as  a  'no,' 
and  his  frown  as  a  smile,  and  he'll  think  the  more  of 
you  for  it.  Some  men,  Robert" — and  she  shook  her 
brown  head  so  sagely  that  he  laughed  outright  and 
pinched  her  cheeks — "some  men  are  like  wee  dogs — 
they  bark  an  awfu'  lot  to  hide  their  smallness." 

This  first  visit  to  Mr.  Drender's  house,  "Jarrow- 
side,"  had  been  freely  discussed  in  the  MacWhinnie 
household.  Thomas,  the  surly,  had  said :  "Don't  get 
it  into  your  head,  Rob,  that  he  wants  to  make  a  friend 
of  you.  Capital  never  stoops  to  pick  up  nothing." 
And  Mrs.  MacWhinnie  had  prophesied  a  hundred 
times  in  as  many  minutes  that  John  Drender  meant 
to  sap  her  boy's  brains,  then  fling  him  aside  as  so 


THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 


many  of  the  Mac  Whinnies  had  been  thrown  by  those 
more  cunning  than  themselves.  .  .  . 

Robert  accepted  their  warnings  and  forebodings 
with  customary  good  humor,  and  left  with  them  an 
impression  that  he  was  quite  capable  of  looking  after 
himself,  although  he  wasn't  likely  to  lose  his  balance 
because  of  the  consideration  of  Mr.  Drender.  Only; 
to  Jean  did  he  betray  his  elation. 

"Jean,  girl,  this  is  the  beginning,"  he  told  her,  his 
cheeks  glowing  like  a  schoolboy's.  "Mr.  Drender 
isn't  the  man  to  waste  his  sympathies.  I  believe  he 
means  to  give  me  the  chance  I  want." 

And  as  she  gave  his  clothes  a  final  survey  Jean  re- 
plied, with  native  caution: 

"Just  steady  yourself,  Rob.  Keep  your  feet  firmly 
on  the  ground,  and  your  head'll  no  be  in  danger  of 
flying  away." 

"Yes,  yes,  Jean,"  he  said  impatiently;  "but  you 
know  that  I  only  need  the  chance,  and  nothing  will 
hold  me  back." 

"Nothing  will  ever  hold  you  back,  Rob,"  she  said 
admiringly.  "You'll  make  a  chance,  even  if  Mr.  Dren- 
der doesn't  feel  disposed  to  give  you  one." 

He  kissed  her  impulsively. 

"A  few  more  years,  Jean,"  he  cried  gayly,  "and  you 
and  I  will  be  making  things  hum.  There  never  was 
a  sister  like  you.  If  this  invention  should  come  to 
anything  -  " 

She  turned  him  round  that  she  might  note  his  waist- 
line. 

"Awa'  wi'  ye  !"  she  laughed.    "Ye'  re  getting  as  tire- 


'MEETING  WITH  MARGARET  DRENDER       25 

some  as  father  with  your  inventions — only  father's 
are  all  on  paper  and  easily  burned." 

He  walked  through  Rotherhithe  with  his  head  erect 
and  his  hopes  higher  than  the  tallest  mast  on  the  river. 
"Jarrowside"  lay  well  back  from  the  water's  edge,  and 
the  grounds  were  so  well  wooded  that,  in  a  district 
where  beauty  of  landscape  had  long  since  been  sac- 
rificed to  the  needs  of  commerce,  they  seemed  utterly 
incongruous. 

Much  of  Robert's  enthusiasm  left  him  as  the  servant 
opened  the  hall  door ;  he  was  almost  apologetic  in  mien 
as  he  hesitated  on  the  threshold  of  the  study,  and  only 
feebly  returned  the  gruff  welcome  of  the  old  Northum- 
brian. It  was  not  the  burly  figure  of  the  ironmaster, 
at  the  writing-desk,  that  unnerved  him.  Margaret 
Drender  was  seated  on  the  top  of  a  library  ladder. 
She  had  been  rummaging  among  the  shelves  for  the 
volume  required  by  her  father,  and  it  seemed  to  Rob- 
ert, as  for  a  moment  he  gazed  at  her,  that  a  giant  book 
had  suddenly  opened  to  show  him  a  picture. 

"Come  in,  MacWhinnie,"  Mr.  Drender  said,  glanc- 
ing over  his  shoulder.  "Margaret,  hinny,  move  the 
reading-lamp  so  that  Mr.  MacWhinnie  may  be  seated 
at  the  table  near  me.  .  .  .  My  daughter"  (to  Robert). 
"Margaret,  you've  heard  me  mention  the  name  of  this 
young  man." 

Nervously  Robert  held  out  his  hand,  fearful  that 
he  was  taking  an  unconscionable  liberty.  She  placed 
her  hand  in  his,  and  without  any  sign  of  embarrass- 
ment allowed  her  dark  eyes  to  rest  on  him. 

"Father  has  often  mentioned  your  name,"  she  said, 
smiling  encouragingly  as  she  indicated  the  chair  near 


26  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

the  table  which  had  been  placed  in  readiness  for  him. 
"I  am  all  impatience  to  see  the  plans." 

"Be  seated,  MacWhinnie,"  said  Mr.  Drender 
brusquely.  "Don't  mind  Margaret;  she's  one  of  the 
partners  in  the  firm — the  principal,  in  fact." 

Margaret,  standing  behind  her  father's  chair, 
laughed  deprecatingly ;  and  there  was  music  in  the 
laugh — for  Robert.  Shyly  he  opened  the  leathern  wal- 
let and  drew  forth  the  plans.  He  handed  them  to  his 
employer,  and  sat  back  in  his  chair.  The  old  iron- 
master adjusted  his  glasses  and  bent  over  the  papers. 
Once  or  twice  he  commented  on  them,  but  received 
no  reply.  Robert  MacWhinnie  was  watching  the  face 
of  Margaret.  For  him  Mr.  Drender  had  passed  away 
into  the  shadows  of  the  study;  only  the  daughter  re- 
mained in  the  circle  of  light  thrown  by  the  reading- 
lamp.  He  saw  a  woman  of  his  own  age,  whose  deep 
black  hair  glistened  in  the  light,  whose  eyes  were  full 
of  a  tender  sympathy  that  awakened  new  emotions  in 
him.  An  hour  before  Jean  had  filled  his  world — 
Jean  and  his  ambitions ;  but  now  the  world  had  moved, 
had  shifted,  and  revealed  another  vision.  Jean  was 
a  sister,  to  be  loved  and  teased  and  coaxed — a  woman 
privy  to  every  thought  he  conceived,  a  woman  from 
whom  he  would  not  dream  of  keeping  any  hope  that 
rose  within  him.  Margaret  Drender — she  was  a 
woman  from  whom  he  would  hide  the  meanest  and 
the  greatest  of  his  projects,  lest  they  should  never  be 
achieved.  That  evening  Margaret  was  wearing  a 
dress  of  bronze  satin  that  rustled  musically  when  she 
stirred.  It  was  trimmed  with  intricate  weavings  of 
Indian  beads,  but,  when  he  returned  home,  Robert 


MEETING  WITH  MARGARET  DRENDER       27 

MacWhinnie  was  able  to  describe  to  Jean  every  fold 
and  twist  and  loop. 

The  plans  were  studied  and  put  away;  and  then 
John  Drender,  with  the  curtness  of  the  man  who  lives 
for  iron  and  absorbs  some  of  its  hardness,  pushed  back 
his  chair  and  said : 

"That'll  do,  MacWhinnie.  I'll  see  my  partner  about 
the  matter  to-morrow,  and  you'll  be  communicated 
with  in  the  ordinary  way.  I  thank  you  for  coming 
to  see  me.  This  idea  of  yours  may  be  worth  some- 
thing or  nothing;  it's  the  trying  that  appeals  to  me. 
Go  on  trying." 

It  was  Margaret  who  accompanied  him  to  the  hall, 
and  the  echo  of  her  "Good-night"  sang  in  his  ears 
until  he  reached  home. 

Mrs.  MacWhinnie,  who  seemed  always  to  have  just 
taken  her  arms  from  a  baking-bowl,  gave  him  a 
searching  glance  as  he  entered  the  house.  He  tried 
to  avert  his  face,  although  he  would  have  been 
ashamed  to  give  a  reason. 

"Oot  wi'  it,  Rob!"  For  the  first  time  the  accent 
grated  on  his  nerves.  "Is  he  gaein'  to  buy  it  frae 
ye,  or  filch  it  ?" 

The  father  broke  in  with  a  quiet :  "Martha,  woman, 
ye're  a'  on  th'  mak'." 

"I  marrit  a  MacWhinnie,"  she  gave  him,  with  a 
shake  of  the  head,  and  he  subsided  immediately. 
"Brains  is  brains,  Donald,"  she  added,  "and  it's  for 
some  o'  us  to  remind  Rob  that  his  are  no  his  ain." 

Robert  kissed  her  affectionately  on  the  cheek. 

"It's  all   right,  mother,"   he   assured  her.     "Mr. 


28  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Drender  will  give  the  matter  his  consideration,  and 
some  day " 

"Did  ye  bring  the  papers  back  wi'  ye  ?"  she  queried, 
impatiently  thrusting  a  rebellious  end  of  hair  back 
to  its  place  in  the  chenille  net. 

He  tried  to  evade  the  piercing  scrutiny,  although 
he  was  conscious  that  all  eyes  in  the  little  red-papered 
sitting-room  were  turned  on  him.  His  father  was 
sitting  in  the  rocking-chair  that  had  been  the  ground- 
work of  a  scoic  of  "inventions,"  and  his  fingers  were 
feeling  "prongs"  of  the  short,  stubbly  beard;  his  ears 
were  wide  open.  Thomas,  the  eldest  son,  had  not  as 
yet  raised  his  eyes  from  his  book,  but  his  whole  body 
was  watching.  Even  the  texts  on  the  wall — and  there 
were  many — seemed  to  curl  their  wool-worked  scrolls 
into  eyes. 

"And  some  day,  mother,"  he  said  dully,  "you  shall 
be  repaid  for  all  you've  done  for  me." 

"Hear  him  havering!"  And  two  arms,  bared  to 
the  elbow,  were  raised  in  an  attitude  of  supplication. 
"As  if  onythin'  had  been  done  for  him  that  he  didna 
deserve.  Ye  gran'  lad,  but  how  cam'  ye  to  leave  your 
bit  papers?  Like  as  no,  he'll  copy  them — then  whaur 
wull  ye  be?  .  .  .  Donald  MacWhinnie,  dinna  shake 
y'r  head  at  me.  If  y'r  grandfaither  had  been  blessed 
wi'  a  body  who  could  hae  looked  after  his  interests  ye 
wad  no  be  settin'  there  awonderin'  who's  to  bury  ye 
decently  when  ye  gae." 

Jean  came  into  the  room,  and  instantly  she  divined 
that  something  had  happened  at  Mr.  Drender's  house. 

"The  casting  of  that  model  has  come  from  the 
foundry,  Rob,"  she  said.  "It's  on  your  desk." 


"I'll  come  upstairs  immediately,  Jean,"  he  replied, 
and  a  minute  later  he  had  reached  the  sanctuary  of 
"Charity  Corner."  Jean,  who  had  led  the  way,  closed 
and  locked  the  door.  She  watched  him  fling  himself 
down  on  the  ottoman  and  turn  his  flushed  face  to  the 
window,  through  which  the  twinkling  lights  of  the 
river  craft  were  peering  inquisitively. 

"What  ails  you,  Robert?"  she  asked.  "You're  all 
of  a  tremble." 

And  into  her  ears  he  poured  his  panegyrics.  She 
listened,  first  with  the  tender  sympathy  of  the  sister, 
then  with  the  doubting  heart  of  the  woman  slightly 
aroused  by  jealousy.  Not  until  he  held  her  cheeks  be- 
tween his  palms  and  kissed  her  brown  hair  again  and 
again,  saying,  "Of  course,  she's  no  like  you,  Jean," 
was  she  content  to  be  seated  at  the  table  and  to  listen 
quietly  to  his  further  lavish  praise. 


CHAPTER   IV 
"AE  FOND  KISS" 

THE  acquaintance  developed,  as  it  was  bound  to 
do,  for,  once  awakened,  real  love  never  sleeps 
again.  And  Margaret  Drender,  too,  was 
haunted  by  a  vision  after  that  first  meeting  in  her 
father's  study.  Matters  relating  to  the  invention— 
purely  a  minor  one,  by  the  way — demanded  the  pres- 
ence of  Robert  MacWhinnie  at  "Jarrowside"  on  in- 
numerable occasions,  and  the  moments  in  the  hall, 
after  he  had  taken  leave  of  the  ironmaster,  lengthened 
on  each  successive  visit. 

And  John  Drender,  his  child's  happiness  at  heart, 
watched  the  bursting  of  the  bud — watched,  not  fear- 
fully, but  with  the  solicitude  of  the  gardener  whose 
mind's  eye  is  filled  with  the  glory  of  the  promise. 

Robert  MacWhinnie  was  twenty- four  years  of  age 
when  the  great  chance  came  to  put  to  the  test  the 
genius  which  those  who  had  sponsored  him  believed 
he  possessed.  Through  the  influence  of  Mr.  Drender 
he  secured  a  position  under  the  Japanese  Government, 
and  was  urged  to  make  hasty  preparations  for  crossing 
the  world.  The  conditions  of  the  contract  into  which 
he  entered  were  that  he  should  remain  in  Japan  for 
three  years,  with  the  option  of  continuing  for  another 

80 


"AE  FOND  KISS"  31 

two  years,  if  he  found  the  climate  and  work  to  his 
liking. 

"They're  making  a  new  nation  out  there,"  Mr. 
Drender  said,  "and  the  foundations  that  you  are  to 
lay  will  be  built  on,  maybe,  for  centuries.  That's  how 
you  must  look  at  it.  You're  a  young  man  to  take 
over  a  responsible  position  of  this  sort,  but  I've  sel- 
dom made  a  mistake  in  my  judgment.  Remember 
that  the  reputation  of  Drender,  Masters  and  Co.  is 
at  stake.  We  shall  always  be  pleased  to  give  advice 
when  approached  in  the  right  manner." 

And  half  an  hour  after  leaving  his  presence  Robert 
MacWhinnie  had  taken  the  heart  of  John  Drender's 
daughter  into  his  keeping.  She  had  hurried  from  her 
room  when  she  heard  him  bidding  her  father  good- 
night, and  as  the  hall  door  closed  behind  him  she 
came  from  out  of  the  shadows  of  the  rhododendrons 
and  held  out  her  hand.  He  wasn't  surprised  to  see 
her  there.  All  the  while  he  was  with  the  parent  his 
heart  had  been  calling  to  the  daughter.  She  accom- 
panied him  through  the  grounds,  and  for  some  time 
no  word  was  spoken.  The  year  was  beginning  to 
die;  a  cold  wind  came  from  the  river  and  snatched 
greedily  at  her  hair.  With  a  simple  movement  he 
raised  the  lace  shawl  about  her  shoulders,  and,  plac- 
ing it  over  her  head,  tied  the  corners  beneath  her 
chin.  Her  eyes  were  riveted  on  his  the  while  he  per- 
formed the  task,  and  once,  for  an  instant,  as  his  hand 
touched  her  face,  she  seemed  to  press  forward  as 
though  afraid  that  he  would  take  it  away. 

"I'm  going  abroad,"  he  said  at  last,  and  waited, 
almost  coward-like,  for  her  to  voice  that  which  was 


THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 


in  both  hearts.  "I  was  full  of  it  —  of  enthusiasm  —  a 
while  back,"  he  stumbled  on,  "but  it's  different  — 
now." 

And  still  she  remained  quiet,  although  her  eyes  were 
eloquent  enough. 

"Going  away  for  three  years.  .  .  .  Has  Mr.  Dren- 
der  told  you?" 

She  nodded  very  slowly;  then  looked  away  from 
him. 

"It's  the  chance  that  we've  been  praying  for  —  Jean 
and  I." 

At  last  she  opened  her  lips  : 

"Jean  is  a  splendid  sister.  .  .  .  There  are  great  pos- 
sibilities in  the  country  to  which  you  are  going.  You 
will  not  let  them  slip." 

He  trembled  a  little  with  pride. 

"You  know  Jean  only  through  what  I  have  told 
you  about  her.  I  wish  you  were  better  acquainted. 
She  is  splendid.  I  would  do  anything  for  her." 

"I'm  certain  of  that." 

"Three  years!  It'll  be  a  lonely  time  for  her,  be- 
cause —  because  Jean  needs  to  be  understood;  she 
wants  sympathy  ;  she's  like  me  in.  that  way.  Jean  and 
I  have  been  friends  ever  since  we  were  bairns." 

Margaret's  voice  was  very  low-pitched  as  she 
said: 

"If  only  for  her  sake  —  because  of  the  hopes  she  re- 
poses in  you  —  you  must  win  abroad." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  without  enthusiasm.  Then  :  "When 
we  were  mere  babes  we  used  to  dream  of  —  of  some- 
thing like  this  happening;  she  was  always  afraid  that 
some  day  I  should  go  away  and  leave  her."  He  tried 


(AE  FOND  KISS" 


to  laugh  at  a  thought  that  came  into  his  head.  "She 
would  always  have  it  that,  just  when  she  needed  me 
most,  some — some  woman  would  creep  into  my 
life.  .  .  ." 

Margaret  had  moved  nearer  to  him;  unconsciously 
he  had  grasped  her  two  hands.  Of  a  sudden  there 
came  a  rush  of  courage,  and  nervousness,  faltering, 
doubt,  embarrassment,  fled  precipitately  before  that 
rush;  his  eyes  glowed  with  the  spark  of  love;  the 
warmth  of  her  presence  enveloped  him. 

"Margaret !  It's  you — you  who  have  crept  into  my 
life,"  he  said,  his  lips  hardly  moving  to  the  words. 
He  raised  her  hands  to  his  lips  and  kissed  them  with 
passion,  and — when  he  lowered  them  he  seemed  to  be 
ashamed  of  what  he  had  said  and  done.  A  great  fear 
took  hold  of  him,  for  she  was  standing  like  one  trans- 
fixed, and  her  face  was  so  white  that  the  heart  might 
have  called  back  the  flow  from  the  body.  .  .  . 

"I  have  offended  you?"  It  was  no  more  than  a 
whisper.  He  released  her  hands.  "But  I  had  to  say 
it,  Margaret.  I  could  not  go  away  without  saying  it. 
And  if — if  I  could  have  gone  with  the  knowledge 
that  you  cared,  even  a  little,  I  should  have  been 
strengthened  a  hundredfold.  It  means  so  much  to 
a  man,  Margaret — to  a  young  man — this  love,  and  the 
strength  of  it.  Ambition  without  love — what  is  it? 
Effort  for  effort's  sake  alone.  An  empty  thing — a  sel- 
fish thing.  Oh!  I  could  have  done  so  much  out  yon- 
der. .  .  ." 

She  stayed  him  with  a  sigh.  The  freed  hands  crept 
again  into  captivity,  this  time  around  his  neck. 


34  THE  HOXOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"I  do  love  you,  Robert,"  she  whispered,  and,  whis- 
pering, hid  her  face  against  his  breast. 

He  folded  her  tightly  to  him.  He  could  not  speak 
for  a  while — he  dared  not  open  his  lips,  for  that  were 
near  to  sacrilege.  He  pressed  his  lips  to  her  forehead ; 
the  wild  beating  of  his  heart  found  a  response  in  hers. 

And  so  they  lingered  in  the  shadows,  and  when  at 
last  she  spoke  again  it  was  like  one  who  now  belonged 
to  another. 

"You  will  succeed,  Robert,"  she  said;  "and  I  shall 
wait  here,  hoping  and  praying  for  your  return.  Three 
years!  Yes,  it  is  a  long  while,  but  your  love  will 
soften  the  pain  of  waiting." 

"My  Margaret!" 

"But  there  is  one  promise  I  wish  you  to  make  me." 

"It  is  made  already." 

"Love — our  love — must  be  only  the  incentive.  All 
your  energies,  your  thoughts,  must  be  given  first  to 
your  work.  And  when  you  have  won  success  I  shall 
be  able  to  feel  that  in  some  measure  I  contributed 
to  it." 

"With  your  love  to  fortify  me  how  can  I  fail?" 

"You  have  not  promised." 

"I  promise." 

"Work  must  come  first.  There  is  so  much  in  the 
world  for  you  to  attempt — to  achieve." 

"It  shall  be  achieved." 

With  a  quick  movement  she  pulled  his  face  down 
to  hers  and  kissed  him  twice.  Then,  before  he  could 
reach  out  to  prevent  her,  she  had  turned  and  fled 
back  to  the  house. 


CHAPTER   V 

MRS.    MACWHINNIE  WRITES  A  LETTER 

WHEN  all  the  circumstances  are  weighed,  it 
must  be  acknowledged  that  Robert  Mac- 
Whinnie  sailed  for  the  Far  East  a  favored 
man.  He  had  youth,  strength,  ambition,  and  unques- 
tionable ability;  he  had  the  stimulus  of  a  sister's  de- 
votedness,  and  the  confidence  of  parents  who  were  sat- 
isfied that  they  had  given  to  the  world  a  genius,  even 
if  they  did  not  seek  to  take  to  themselves  more  of 
the  credit  than  was  really  due.  Behind  him  he  had 
the  influence  of  Mr.  John  Drender,  head  of  one  of 
the  most  reputable  ironworks  on  the  Thames;  and, 
above  all,  he  had  the  love  of  John  Drender 's  daughter. 
It  is  hardly  essential  thus  early  in  the  romance  of 
Robert  MacWhinnie  to  describe  the  work  which  he 
actually  achieved  in  Japan  during  those  three  years 
that  he  served  under  a  Government  whose  spirit  was 
as  progressive  as  his  own.  Enough  that  he  fulfilled 
all  the  prophecies  of  Mr.  John  Drender,  and  laid 
foundations  on  which  many  of  the  marvels  of  engi- 
neering of  to-day  were  built.  The  railways,  then  in 
their  infancy,  bridge-building,  and  the  development 
of  national  ability — all  these  were  part  of  his  labors. 
From  Tokio  to  Kobe,  from  Nagasaki  to  Hakodate  his 

35 


86  THE  HOXOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

operations  were  spread;  there  was  no  cramping  of  his 
efforts,  and  ideas  were  seized  upon  and  developed 
without  regard  for  the  cost.  It  was  just  the  en- 
couragement most  calculated  to  bring  out  the  genius 
he  possessed,  and  long  before  his  term  of  three  years 
was  run  he  had  reached  a  height  that  would  have 
turned  the  head  of  one  less  absorbed  in  the  work  itself. 

The  love  of  a  good  woman  never  retards  the  labors 
of  a  good  workman.  During  those  years  Robert's 
love  for  Margaret  Drender  deepened;  in  the  letters 
which  passed  between  them  there  was  a  beauty  and 
breadth  that  ennobled  both  writers.  Frequently  Mr. 
John  Drender  himself  volunteered  advice  which  he 
hoped  would  be  of  immense  value  to  a  young  man 
in  a  foreign  country,  and  that  advice  was  always  ac- 
cepted in  the  spirit  of  one  who  believed  in  himself  but 
was  ever  ready  to  sit  at  the  feet  of  wisdom  and  ex- 
perience. 

It  will  be  gathered  from  this  that  the  romance 
which  had  commenced  in  the  study  was  not  unknown 
to  the  old  ironmaster.  It  is  not  to  anticipate  the  de- 
velopment of  that  romance  to  say  that  while  Mr.  John 
Drender  made  no  verbal  reference  to  it,  he  was  con- 
tent to  abide  by  the  choice  of  Margaret.  In  his  heart 
he  was  deeply  attached  to  the  man  whom  he  had 
watched  from  boyhood.  He  believed  that  the  name  of 
Robert  MacWhinnie  would  one  day  be  a  force  of 
which  the  engineering  world  might  speak  with  some- 
thing akin  to  reverence. 

In  one  of  his  letters  to  Robert  he  made  pointed 
inquiry  of  his  intentions  when  the  three  years'  con- 
tract should  have  expired,  and  in  phrases  which  could 


MRS.  MACWHINNIE  WRITES  A  LETTER     37 

not  be  misunderstood,  and  which  could  not  be  said 
in  any  way  to  detract  from  his  sense  of  dignity,  he 
hinted  at  the  time  when  increasing  years  should  pre- 
vent his  giving  so  much  time  to  the  ironworks,  and 
when  the  infusion  of  new  blood  in  the  form  of  a 
junior  partner  might  mean  the  granting  of  a  new  lease 
of  life  to  the  firm.  Bearing  upon  this,  the  letter  which 
Robert  MacWhinnie  wrote  to  Margaret  was  some  in- 
dex to  those  intentions  of  his : 

"YOKOHAMA. 

"SWEETHEART. — The  mail  arrived  this  morning.  From 
my  bungalow  on  the  top  of  the  Bluff  I  watched  the  boat 
come  out  of  the  morning  haze  into  the  harbor;  for  mail 
days  mean  so  much  to  us — we  who  are  separated  from  those 
we  love  by  nearly  twelve  thousand  miles  of  land  and  water. 

"Your  father  fras  written  me  a  charming  letter.  It  is  as 
though  he  had  read  and  understood  all  that  has  been  in  my 
heart  since  I  left  home.  A  junior  partnership  in  the  firm  of 
Drender  and  Masters  seems  like  a  crown  of  triumph  to  all 
the  work  I  have  endeavored  to  do  while  out  here.  Think 
what  it  would  mean  to  you  and  me !  Truly,  I  am  favored. 
Sometimes,  when  I  reflect  on  all  the  happiness  that  is  mine, 
on  all  the  silver  with  which  my  path  has  been  strewn,  I 
feel  that  the  gods,  in  shaping  my  destiny,  had  some  great 
and  special  mission  for  me."  (Truly  prophetic  words,  in 
the  light  of  what  was  to  come!) 

"At  present  we  are  bridge-building  in  the  north  of  the 
island,  but  with  a  continuance  of  the  native  energy  that 
has  been  manifested  since  my  arrival,  the  work  will  be  com- 
pleted some  weeks  before  my  contract  with  the  Government 
is  due  to  expire.  I  shall  come  home,  Margaret.  Success  in 
itself  has  its  grandeur,  but  no  amount  of  success  can  com- 
pensate for  the  pain  of  the  solitude — without  you. 

"Jean  writes  regularly,  but  of  late  there  has  been  a  brevity 
about  her  letters  that  puzzles  me.  Usually,  she  is  so  com- 
municative, so  'newsy/  that  the  falling  off  is  all  the  more 
emphasized.  If  I  didn't  know  Jean  so  intimately,  and  wasn't 
so  closely  acquainted  with  all  her  views  on  life,  I  should 
say  that  my  little  brown-haired  mentor  had  fallen  in  love. 


38  THE  HOXOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

I  shall  send  her  a  letter  by  this  mail  to  inquire  his  name,  and 
when  you  see  her  again,  you  may  pinch  her  cheeks  for  me." 


And  the  reply  which  Margaret  Drender  sent  to  that 
letter  affords  some  indication  of  the  workings  of  her 
mind: 

"JARROWSIDE. 

"My  ROBERT. — Before  he  wrote  to  you,  father  spoke  to 
me  about  the  prospects  of  your  becoming  a  junior  partner 
in  the  firm ;  and  so  great  was  my  excitement,  that  I  has- 
tened to  your  mother's  house  to  convey  to  her  the  news. 
She  was  delighted,  so  much  so  that  she  had  a  little  weep  all 
to  herself. 

"You  are  doing  splendidly  out  there;  but,  then,  I  always 
knew  that  no  goal  would  be  too  distant  for  you,  no  height 
too  difficult  to  climb.  We  follow  the  record  of  your  achieve- 
ments through  the  trade  journals,  and  we  don't  hesitate 
to  criticize  any  of  your  projects  which  do  not  fit  in  with 
our  old-fashioned  ideas.  Only  three  years !  Father  says  it's 
little  short  of  miraculous.  And  I — what  would  you  have 
me  say?  Your  dear  reminder  that  in  a  short  while  the 
contract  will  expire  filled  me  with  joy  which  my  poor  pen 
refuses  to  describe.  Not  that  I  needed  a  reminder,  for 
every  day  has  been  ticked  off,  and  every  to-morrow  has 
come  with  a  swifter  rush  than  the  last.  How  like  children 
we  become  when  love  enters  in !  I  have  made  of  the  calen- 
dar of  days  to  come  a  kind  of  long  white  road,  with  the 
figure  of  you  at  the  end.  In  my  own  little  study  there  is  a 
great  map  of  the  world,  disfigured  by  an  impetuous  pen — 
a  pen  that  has  written  down  the  distance  between  each  port 
of  call. 

"Robert,  I  never  dreamed  that  love  was  half  so  great  a 
thing  as  this.  It  has  taken  possession  of  me.  It  has  filled 
my  whole  life.  You  are  never  absent  from  my  thoughts. 
But,  Robert,  I  have  not  surrendered  the  promise  you  made 
me  on  the  night  our  hearts  were  opened.  Let  it  be  work 
first.  Let  it  never  be  said  that  because  of  the  selfishness 
of  my  love  your  greatness  was  retarded  or  limited.  (I 
wonder  if  in  your  mind's  eye  you  can  see  my  poor  fingers 


MRS.  MACWHINNIE  WRITES  A  LETTER     39 

trembling  as  I  write  that?  They  are  feverish  to  write  that 
which  the  heart  dictates.) 

"I'm  afraid  that  you'll  say  that  my  letters  are  never 
'newsy,'  like  Jean's;  but  then,  there  is  only  one  absorbing 
subject. 

"Your  references  to  dear  Jean's  letters  amused  me.  In- 
deed, you  are  a  prophet,  for  when  I  last  met  her  she  made 
me  her  confidante.  No,  I  must  let  Jean  herself  break  the 
news.  She  is  very  happy — almost  as  happy  as  I  am." 

By  the  same  mail  Robert  received  a  letter  from  his 
mother.  It  was  written  on  a  page  taken  from  a  school 
copy-book,  and  it  was  singularly  expressive,  if  lacking 
eloquence : 

"My  BOY. — We've  done  with  the  flitting,  and  the  new 
house  is  'Fern  Brae,'  River  Bank,  Greenwich.  The  flitting 
cost  an  awful  sight,  but  I  managed  to  put  past  nearly  half  of 
what  you  sent,  aye,  and  without  letting  your  father  know 
a  word  about  it.  He  was  all  for  stopping  in  the  old  house 
and  spending  the  money  on  another  idea  of  his — making 
the  harmonyam  play  by  clockwork,  as  if  my  poor  head  didn't 
get  enough  of  it  without.  I  told  him:  'Donald,  if  you  think 
you  can  make  the  thing  a  pair  of  real  legs,  so's  it  can 
walk  out  of  the  house  and  drown  itself,  I'll  sell  my  best 
bonnet  to  help  you  with  the  models.'  And  up  he  jumps, 
saying  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  him,  where  would  Robert 
have  got  his  brains? 

"Now,  my  boy,  blood's  thicker  than  water,  and  charity 
begins  at  home.  John  Drender  knows  your  worth.  So  do 
I.  Don't  give  any  more  of  your  brains  away  for  nothing, 
and  don't  let  him  flatter  you  into  softness.  Margaret  Dren- 
der is  a  nice  bit  woman,  but  if  you  hadn't  any  brains,  do 
you  think  her  father  would  let  her  look  at  you?  When 
they  come  talking  to  me  about  what  you're  doing,  and  what 
you're  going  to  do,  I  say  to  them,  'Would  one  of  you  have 
knitted  him  a  pair  of  socks  if  he'd  growed  up  without 
brains?'  Your  father  says  I'm  teaching  you  to  be  selfish. 
Rubbish,  I  say.  You'll  find  as  you  grow  older  that  the  more 
you  study  yourself  and  your  own,  the  more  the  world  studies 


40  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

you.  They  used  to  call  my  grandfather  a  hard  old  devil  in 
Ballyhoustie,  but  they  were  always  taking  off  their  hats  to 
him  in  the  hope  of  finding  a  soft  spot. 

"You  will  be  pleased  to  hear  Thomas  is  doing  awful  well 
outside  his  work.  He  spoke  a  speech  at  the  Socialists'  last 
week,  and  he  fair  made  me  cry  with  the  way  he  downed 
them  as  always  wanted  to  be  on  top.  Jamie's  a  grand  lad, 
and  is  likely  to  be  a  rare  comic.  When  you  come  home,  he'll 
sing  to  you.  David's  still  his  mother's  boy,  and  as  for  your 
father,  he's  still  borrowing  money  from  us  to  make  inven- 
tions that  somebody  made  years  before.  His  latest  is  a  rub- 
ber ball  let  into  the  legs  of  chairs,  because  he  can't  stand 
the  scraping  ^n  the  floor.  Your  father  might  have  been 
a  rich  man  to-day,  if  he  hadn't  invented  so  much. 

"I'm  trying  hard  to  get  used  to  this  new  house,  but  I 
weary  for  the  old  one.  There's  always  something  about  a 
new  house  that  reminds  you  of  how  much  you've  left  behind 
in  the  old  one.  A  body  grows  into  a  house,  but  she  can't 
grow  out  of  it.  Do  you  know  the  feeling,  Rob?  I  think  I 
do,  because  Jean  was  awful  keen  on  having  your  study  in 
the  new  house  just  as  it  was  in  the  old  one.  And  it's  in  the 
same  place — right  on  the  top — and  all  the  old  furniture  is 
like  as  you  left  it.  Jean  keeps  the  key." 

Two  months  before  he  left  Yokohama  for  home 
Robert  wrote  a  letter  to  Margaret,  in  which  he  care- 
fully balanced  all  the  prospects,  arriving  at  the  con- 
clusion that,  without  the  joy  of  her  presence  near  him, 
further  success  would  be  hollow.  He  was  coming 
home,  he  said,  and  he  would  lose  no  time  in  visiting 
"Jarrowside."  He  added : 

"My  bonnie  Jean  has  told  me  everything,  and  although 
at  first  I  was  as  jealous  as  a  lover  in  disfavor,  I'm  just  dying 
to  pick  her  up  and  kiss  her  for  very  joy.  She  tells  me  that 
the  lucky  man  is  'Wullie'  Henderson,  who  attended  the 
classes  with  me  when  I  was  serving  my  apprenticeship.  He 
was  only  a  youngster  then,  but  I  dare  say  that  he's  grown 
into  a  fine  young  man.  You  can't  imagine  how  I  felt  when 


MRS.  MACWHINNIE  WRITES  A  LETTER      413 

I  learned  that  Jean  had  given  her  heart  to  someone,  for 
always  I  have  been  inclined  to  regard  her  as  belonging 
peculiarly  to  me.  Always,  she  has  been  a  little  girl  with 
long  brown  hair.  Isn't  it  strange  that  during  this  absence 
from  home  I  have  never  been  able  to  think  of  Jean  as  a 
woman  ?  I  remember  how  she  used  to  mother  me,  when  she 
couldn't  have  been  more  than  thirteen — how  she  chased  the 
MacKendricks  down  the  street  with  a  broom-handle  for  in- 
terfering with  'her  bairn/  It  was  Jean  who  cut  down 
Thomas's  clothes  for  me,  and  made  them  less  unseemly  than 
when  my  mother  had  finished  with  them — Jean  who  helped 
to  make  my  kites,  and  who  would  run  a  mile  over  ditches 
and  fences  to  recover  the  kite  when  the  string  broke — 
Jean  who  pleaded  for  me  when  father  took  the  'tawse'  down 
from  the  nail  on  the  wall — Jean  who  smuggled  my  dinner 
into  the  garret  where  I  was  kept  a  prisoner  for  three  days 
for  stealing  the  eggs  of  a  setting  hen.  And  now  Jean  has 
fallen  in  love  with  another  man!  Bless  me,  I  must  be 
selfish,  but  I  wanted  Jean  to  go  on  living  for  me!  Willie 
Henderson's  a  lucky  man." 

And  about  the  time  that  Robert  MacWhinnie  was 
writing  that  letter,  the  heart  of  his  sister  Jean  was 
being  torn  asunder. 


CHAPTER   VI 

MILLSTONES 

THE  ship  entered  the  river  an  hour  after  sunset, 
and  by  the  time  she  was  berthed  and  the  pas- 
sengers disembarked  it  was  nearly  ten  o'clock. 
Since  daybreak  Robert  MacWhinnie  had  been  on  deck, 
afraid  to  miss  a  single  point  in  the  coast-line,  for  a 
sight  of  which  he  had  been  hungering  for  three  years. 
Although  he  had  expressed  a  wish  that  they  should 
not  make  the  journey  from  Greenwich  to  the  docks 
if  the  boat  should  arrive  late,  he  was  a  little  hurt  to 
find  no  one  there  to  give  him  a  welcome.  He  engaged 
a  cab,  and  when  at  last  it  stopped  at  the  door  of  his 
father's  house  the  feeling  of  disappointment  gave  way 
to  one  of  pleasurable  excitement.  In  a  few  seconds 
he  became  a  boy  again,  and  with  all  the  boisterous- 
ness  of  youth  he  leaped  up  the  steps  and  gave  the  door 
a  vigorous  knock.  The  next  minute  his  arms  were 
tightly  wrapped  around  his  mother,  and  she  was 
laughing  and  sobbing  in  turns. 

"Rob,  man !  Is  it  really  ye  ?  I  want  tae  greet  an' 
greet.  .  .  .  Man,  ye're  the  color  of  a  Pathan,  an'  as 
big  as  big!  ...  An'  is  a'  that  luggage  yours?  .  .  . 
An'  a  cab,  Rob?  Eh!  the  extravagance  of  the  man! 
.  .  .  Ye'll  be  awf'y  rich?  .  .  .  Whaur's  y'r  faither? 
He  never  was  just  there  when  I  wanted  him." 

42 


MILLSTONES  43 


"When  ye've  finished  wi'  the  laddie,"  came  from 
the  diminutive  Donald  behind  her,  "I'll  hae  a  word  to 
say  to  him.  .  .  .  Hie,  Jamie !  and  ye,  David !  shoulder 
this  luggage.  Rob,  man,  it's  pleased  I  am  to  see  ye 
back!  .  .  .  Eh,  Rob,  but  it's  a  long  time  sin'  ye  did 
that."  For  Robert  had  kissed  him  as  heartily  as  he 
had  kissed  his  mother.  And  Jamie  and  David  were 
kissed  in  turn,  although  they  frowned  as  in  shame. 

Robert  was  hurried — almost  carried — into  the  din- 
ing-room, where  everything  had  been  arranged  in 
readiness  for  his  return.  The  table  was  spread,  his 
old  chair  was  in  its  customary  place,  his  old  slippers 
were  on  the  hearthrug.  Mrs.  MacWhinnie  forced  him 
into  a  chair  and  insisted  on  taking  off  his  boots,  de- 
fying any  of  the  others  to  interfere.  He  allowed  her 
to  perform  the  task,  understanding  the  joy  she  derived 
from  it.  And  all  the  while  she  knelt  at  his  feet  she 
poured  out  a  torrent  of  criticism.  They  were  grand 
boots,  and  they  must  have  cost  a  sight  of  money,  but 
did  he  think  the  welts  would  be  strong  enough  when 
the  winter  came?  And  who  had  knitted  his  stock- 
ings? No  one  who  had  any  idea  of  how  stockings 
ought  to  be  knitted.  And  how  were  his  flannels? 
And  wasn't  he  thankful  that  he'd  reached  home  in 
safety?  And  had  he  never  thought  of  her,  sitting 
there  night  after  night  while  he  was  on  the  water,  and 
tormenting  herself  into  a  fever  lest  the  engines  in  the 
ship  should  stop,  or  the  ship  itself  be  piled  up  on  the 
rocks  ? 

And  Donald,  his  father,  was  plying  him  with  ques- 
tions about  all  that  had  happened  in  Japan.  Were 
the  Japanese  really  as  small  as  they  were  said  to  be? 


44  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Were  they  getting  over  cannibalism?  How  had  he 
understood  their  language?  How  had  they  paid  him, 
and  was  he  satisfied  that  their  money  was  good  ? 

The  two  voices  blended  disturbingly,  Donald's  ris- 
ing shrilly  when  he  feared  that  his  wife's  was  getting 
an  audience  to  the  prejudice  of  his  own ;  and  frequently 
she  shouted  an  injunction  to  him  to  "bide  his  while" 
and  to  remember  that  Robert  was  her  son. 

Thomas,  thin,  almost  gaunt,  and  sour  of  temper, 
had  been  reading  near  the  window.  He  had  shown 
no  particular  concern  in  his  brother's  return,  but  as 
the  babel  rose  he  flung  down  his  books  and  asked  how 
any  man  could  be  expected  to  understand  his  subject 
while  so  much  noise  was  going  on. 

"Thomas,"  cried  Robert,  flinging  out  a  hand  toward 
his  brother,  "you  haven't  given  me  a  grip!  How  are 
you,  old  fellow,  and  how's  the  world  wagging  with 
you?" 

"Same  as  it  always  did,"  came  sullenly  from 
Thomas. 

"Pay  no  heed,  Robert,"  the  father  interrupted. 
"Tammas  is  no  hissel'  these  days.  It's  liver — or  litera- 
ture— wi'  him,  an'  the  ane  is  as  bad  as  th'  ither." 

And  the  slippers  were  on,  and  he  had  risen  to  his 
feet  to  stamp  the  hearthrug  with  that  last  mark  of 
gratification,  when,  in  a  voice  that  was  lowered  in 
self-reproach,  Robert  exclaimed: 

"Jean!  Where's  my  bonnie  Jean?  I  almost  ex- 
pected her  to  be  at  the  docks  awaiting  me,  but  I  sup- 
pose  •"  He  was  going  to  smile,  but  of  a  sudden  he 

felt  that  something  was  wrong.  His  brothers  glanced 
at  each  other,  and  then  at  their  parents,  as  though 


MILLSTONES  45 


urging  them  to  take  the  lead,  and  Donald  looked  at 
his  wife  and  frowned. 

"Jean's  in  her  ain  room,"  he  said  to  Robert,  with 
a  sigh.  "She's  never  out  o'  it  these  days." 

"Draw  up  to  the  table,  Robert,"  Mrs.  MacWhin- 
nie  urged.  "Dinna  let  the  greetin'  of  a  lassie  rob  ye 
of  an  appetite." 

But  Robert's  face  was  all  wrinkles,  and  he  looked 
first  at  one,  then  at  the  other,  as  if  he  doubted  that 
they  were  not  playing  some  practical  joke  upon  him. 

"But,  mother,  I  must  see  Jean!"  he  protested. 
"Where  is  she?" 

"In  her  room,  didna  y'r  f aither  tell  ye  ?  ...  Do  sit 
down,  man,  and  hae  some  food." 

"Is  she  ill?" 

"She's  no  ill  bodily,  and  if  she  had  the  strength  o' 
mind  that  God  was  good  enough  tae  gi'e  her  mither, 
she'd  no  be  ill  i'  ither  respects.  Rob,  I  hae  no  patience 
wi'  grief  when  it  lasts  that  long  ye're  not  certain  it 
isna  a  selfish  grief." 

"Grief?    What  grief  has  Jean  suffered?" 

Mrs.   MacWhinnie  turned  to  her  husband. 

"Ye'd  better  tell  him,  Donald.  He'll  no  eat  a  bite 
till  he  kens  it  a'." 

Donald  MacWhinnie  nodded  his  acceptance  of  the 
duty. 

"It  happened  two  months  ago,  Rob.  We  would 
hae  sent  ye  word,  if  we  hadna  thought  it  might  in- 
terfere wi'  y'r  work." 

"What  could  work  mean  if  anything  were  wrong 
with  Jean?"  Robert  asked,  a  suspicion  of  anger  in 
his  voice. 


46  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Mr.  MacWhinnie  gave  his  little  beard  an  upward 
flick  with  the  side  of  his  forefinger. 

"Well,  we  didna  send  word,  that's  a',"  he  said ;  "an' 
I  may  tell  ye  it  was  the  lassie's  wish  ye  shouldna 
ken  onything  about  it  till  ye  reached  hame.  We  wrote 
ye  about  Wullie  Henderson?" 

Robert  was  blinking  helplessly. 

"Jean  told  me  all  about  it,"  he  managed  to  say. 

"Ay.    A  gran'  lad,  Wullie." 

"I  remember  him  well.    He  and  I  studied  together." 

"Of  course  ye  did.  He  was  a  gran'  lad,  and  we 
thought  a  great  deal  about  him." 

"Was  a  grand  lad?    What  mean  you,  father?" 

"He's  dead,"  said  Donald  laconically. 

Robert  leaned  heavily  against  the  table. 

"Dead !"  he  repeated.     "My  poor  Jean !" 

"He  had  the  makin's  of  a  fine  engineer,  Robert. 
Through  my  word  and  influence  Mr.  Drender  would 
hae  gi'en  him  the  chance  he  needed.  But  God's  ways 
are  mysterious,  an'  it's  no  for  us  to  complain.  Wul- 
lie was  killed  i'  the  works.  God  was  merciful.  It 
was  soon  over.  A  cracked  pulley  flew  to  bits,  and 
Wullie  was  hit.  Your  brither  Tammas  picked  him  up, 
but  the  laddie  said  nae  mair  than:  'God  be  good  to 
Jean!'" 

Robert  had  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand  while 
his  father  was  speaking,  and  his  bronzed  cheeks  were 
wet  with  tears. 

"You  should  have  written  and  told  me,"  he  said,  in 
a  broken  voice.  "Why,  I  must  have  sent  two  or  three 
letters  to  Jean  since  her  bereavement,  and  they  were 
letters  full  of  my  foolish  teasing.  In  my  trunk  there's 


MILLSTONES  47 


yards  and  yards  of  silk  that  I've  brought  home  for  her 
wedding.  What  can  I  say  to  her?" 

As  he  spoke,  Mrs.  MacWhinnie,  who  had  left  the 
room,  was  heard  calling  up  the  stairs: 

"Jean!  Do  ye  no  ken  that  y'r  brither's  hame? 
Come  down  immediate.  There's  a  time  to  greet  an' 
a  time  no  to  greet." 

"Mother!"  Robert  cried  out  sharply,  "let  me  go  to 
Jean." 

He  left  his  father  standing  near  the  fire,  and  crossed 
the  room  in  a  few  strides. 

"Jean,  my  bonnie  lass,"  he  called,  "I'm  coming  up 
to  you!" 

And  the  next  moment  he  was  in  her  room.  Poor 
Jean !  She  had  altered  so  much  that  he  threw  up  his 
hands,  and  uttered  a  low  cry  of  dismay.  There  was 
not  a  particle  of  color  in  her  cheeks;  the  eyes  were 
dark-ringed  and  weary  with  weeping. 

"Rob!"  she  sobbed,  and  slowly  slipped  into  the  com- 
fort of  his  arms. 

Her  dear  brown  head  was  pillowed  on  his  breast, 
her  arms  tightened  around  his  neck  as  though  she 
feared  he  might  slip  away,  and  as  she  continued  to 
sob  he  kissed  her  hair  again  and  again. 

"Jean,"  he  murmured,  "they  should  have  told  me — 
they  should  have  told  me.  My  poor,  heartbroken 
Jean!" 

She  raised  her  head,  but  still  held  tightly  to  him. 

"It  was  my  wish,  Robert,"  she  said.  "It  was  my 
grief.  Why  should  you  be  asked  to  share  it?" 

"Why?"  he  echoed.  "Because  if  Jean  MacWhin- 
nie shared  all  the  joys  of  her  life  with  her  brother, 


48  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

should  not  he  expect  to  share  the  sorrows  ?  Jean,  you 
can't  tell  how  I've  wanted  you  out  yonder.  It  would 
have  been  fine,  woman,  to  have  had  you  looking  after 
my  little  bungalow.  You  would  have  fallen  in  love 
with  it  at  first  sight,  Jean.  It  was  so  wee,  I  couldn't 
stand  upright  without  pushing  my  head  through  the 
bamboo  ceiling!  And  no  beds  to  make,  Jean;  just  a 
rice-mat  to  lie  down  on.  And  my  fish-pond  in  the 
garden — especially  in  the  cherry-blossom  season !  Ah ! 
if  you  had  been  there,  Jean.  ..." 

"You  remember  Willie?"  Her  mind  was  too  grief- 
laden  to  be  moved  by  his  description  of  his  Japanese 
home. 

"Yes,  Jean,"  he  answered  softly;  "and  if  I  had 
been  asked  to  choose  a  man  for  you  I  could  not  have 
thought  of  a  better." 

She  had  lowered  her  face  again,  and  now  her  sob- 
bing shook  both  her  and  him. 

"I  understand,  Jean,"  he  whispered,  stroking  her 
brown  hair.  "To-morrow  I'm  going  to  see  my  Mar- 
garet. I  can  imagine  her  feelings,  if  anything  like 
this  had  happened  to  me." 

"You've  written  to  her,  Robert?"  Her  face  was 
still  hidden  against  his  breast. 

"Yes.  She  knows  that  I'm  going  to  Jarrowside 
in  the  morning." 

"You're  going  to  marry  her,  Robert?" 

"God  grant  it,"  he  said.  "It's  because  I  love  her 
so  deeply  that  I  can  well  understand  and  sympathize 
with  you  in  your  sorrow." 

"You'll  be  going  back — to  Japan?" 

"No,  Jean.    I'm  going  to  stay  here  with  you  and 


MILLSTONES  49 


Margaret.  I  have  to  write  to  the  Government  to- 
morrow, to  say  whether  or  no  I  shall  go  back.  There's 
a  great  deal  of  work  yet  to  be  done,  but  there's  a 
rare  lot  of  genius  among  the  natives  of  the  country." 

"Robert" — she  spoke  hesitantly,  nervously — "I  wish 
you  were  going  back." 

Surprised,  he  held  her  at  arm's  length  and  looked 
into  her  eyes. 

"What  mean  you,  Jean?"  he  exclaimed.  "Why 
should  you  wish  that?" 

"I  wish  that  you  were  going  to  take  Margaret  with 
you — and  me." 

"And  you,  Jean?" 

"Because  no  one  understands  me  like  you.  If  I'd 
had  your  sympathy,  lately " 

He  kissed  her  again. 

"Jean,"  he  said,  "you're  going  to  have  my  sym- 
pathy for  the  rest  of  your  life.  .  .  .  Now  I'm  going 
downstairs,  but  I'm  fair  drouthy  to  see  the  new  'Char- 
ity Corner.'  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you,  so  much  to 
show  you." 

"It's  not  a  new  'Charity  Corner/  Rob.  God  grant" 
— she  lowered  her  head  again — '"God  grant  that  ye'll 
be  your  ain  sweet  self  in  it." 

Impulsively  she  wound  her  arms  around  his  neck, 
and  pressed  her  cheek  against  his. 

"Rob,"  she  said,  "why  did  you  come  back  ?  Oh, 
why  did  you  come  back?" 

He  knew  she  had  not  told  him  all.  He  was  shak- 
ing his  head  in  a  bewildered  way. 

"My  own  self  ?"  he  said ;  "why,  did  you  expect  me 


50  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

to  be  different?  And  why  have  I  come  back?  Jean, 
woman,  they're  strange  words  from  you." 

Fears  which  he  could  not  define  came  into  his  mind. 
They  dazed  him.  Jean  had  never  been  hysterical. 
There  was  something  looming  phantom-like  out  of  the 
shadows  of  her  grief. 

"You  have  something  to  tell  me,  Jean;  there's 
something  else?" 

"There's  nothing  to  tell  you,  Robert." 

"Thank  God  for  that,  Jean,"  he  said,  without  know- 
ing why  he  said  it. 

Jamie  called  to  him  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"We'll  have  a  long  talk  to-morrow,  Jean,  lass,"  he 
whispered  tenderly.  "I  would  like  you  to  come  down 
and  unpack  my  boxes.  There's  a  kimono  in  one  of 
them  that  will  send  mother  into  a  sermon  on  extrava- 
gance. You'd  think  it  had  been  made  for  a  princess." 

"I'll  not  come  down,  Robert,  to-night.  I  want  to 
sit  here  and  think.  I'll  listen  for  you  going  to  bed, 
and  I'll  call  out  good-night  to  you.  .  .  .  Robert" — 
she  kissed  him  again — "Margaret  will  not  sleep  to- 
night, thinking  about  you.  You're  finer  than  ever. 
But  I  wish — I  wish  you  were  going  back." 

"Jean!"  he  cried.    "That's  twice  you've  said  that." 

She  urged  him  toward  the  door. 

"Go  down,  Robert,"  she  said.  "Jamie's  calling. 
To-morrow  we'll  talk  to  each  other." 

Robert  went  back  to  the  dining-room,  and,  believ- 
ing that  he  was  studying  Jean's  wishes,  he  made  no 
reference  to  the  death  of  Henderson.  They  all  sat 
down  to  supper,  and  during  the  meal  he  endeavored 
to  answer  all  the  questions  that  were  put  to  him.  It 


MILLSTONES  51 


was  when  they  sat  back  in  their  chairs  and  began  to 
speak  of  the  future  that  he  felt  for  the  first  time  the 
weight  of  the  millstones  around  his  neck. 

"Ye'll  be  awa'  i'  th'  morning  to  see  Margaret  Dren- 
der?"  Mrs.  MacWhinnie  said. 

"Yes,  mother,"  he  replied.  "I  would  have  gone 
to-night,  if  the  ship  had  been  berthed  earlier.  She 
knows  that  I  shall  be  there  to-morrow." 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  Mrs.  MacWhinnie,  and  sighed 
deeply.  "  'A  son's  a  son  till  he  gets  a  wife.' ' 

Thomas  laughed  harshly. 

"You  wouldn't  keep  Robert  tied  to  your  apron- 
strings  all  his  life,  mother?"  he  suggested,  and  before 
she  could  make  reply  he  added:  "Robert's  only  hu- 
man, and  a  wife's  a  wife." 

"We're  no  going  to  talk  about  that,"  Mr.  Mac- 
Whinnie burst  in.  "What  I  want  you  to  tell  me,  Rob- 
ert, is  this :  Do  the  people  in  that  country  appreciate 
genius?  Man,  I  have  an  awf'y  clever  idea  for  a  child's 
toy,  that  would  bring  in  thousands  if  it  was  properly 
worked." 

Mrs.  MacWhinnie  looked  across  at  Robert,  and 
there  was  a  note  of  anxiety  in  her  voice  as  she  said : 
"It'll  be  a  long  time  before  ye  think  o'  gettin'  marrit, 
Rob?" 

"Don't  let's  talk  about  it,  mother,"  he  answered. 
"Let's  talk  about  you,  yourselves.  How  have  you 
been  getting  along  without  me?" 

"I  couldna  bear  the  thought  of  your  leaving  me 
just  when  I'm  beginning  tae  look  forward  to  the 
fruits  o'  all  I've  done  for  you." 


52  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

And  again  Thomas  laughed,  saying :  "  'A  son's  a 
son  till  he  gets  a  wife/  mother." 

"Ye  can't  tell  how  y'r  brothers  have  been  looking 
forward  to  y'r  home-coming.  They  think  the  world 
of  you,  Rob.  They  think  there's  no  one  like  you. 
Your  faither's  never  been  able  to  gi'e  them  the  chance 
they  deserved,  but  I've  said  to  them  again  and  again, 
'Wait  till  Rob  comes  into  his  ain.' ' 

"I  mind  the  day  when  we  first  cam'  to  Rotherhithe." 
Donald  MacWhinnie  was  stroking  the  points  of  his 
beard.  "There  was  twenty  pound  amang  us " 

"If  ye  want  to  please  Rob,"  said  Thomas,  "ye'll 
no  talk  so  much  about  what  has  been.  If  there's  any- 
thing a  man  dislikes  more  than  another,  it's  to  be  re- 
minded of  his  humble  start  in  life.  If  you  talk  like 
that  now,  faither,  how  are  you  going  to  talk  when 
you  have  to  touch  your  cap  to  Mr.  Robert  MacWhin- 
nie, junior  partner  in  the  firm  of  Drender,  Masters 
and  Co.?" 

"Tammas,"  said  his  father,  "I  wad  thank  ye  to 
keep  y'r  sentiments  for  the  Park  o'  th'  Sunday  morn- 
ings. It's  no  respectfu'  to  y'r  faither,  and  it  shows  a 
lack  of  sympathy  with  the  Mac  Whinnies  that  are  dead. 
Man !  if  you'd  talked  to  them  as  you're  talking  to  me 
now,  they'd  hae  taken  ye  out  into  the  back  yard,  and 
put  some  sense  where  ye  hae  nane  now." 

Jamie  said,  with  some  degree  of  importance: 
"When  Rob  has  charge  of  the  works  there  are  one  or 
two  persons  in  them  that  I'd  like  to  square  things 
with." 

And  so  they  went  on  for  an  hour  or  so,  until  at 
last  the  father  intimated  that  it  was  time  for  the 


MILLSTONES  53 


evening  reading,  after  which  they  would  be  glad  to 
get  to  their  beds. 

"Robert,"  said  Mr.  MacWhinnie,  as  he  wiped  his 
spectacles  with  the  corner  of  a  red  check  handker- 
chief and  looked  down  at  the  Book,  "we've  thought 
of  ye  every  night  when  it  cam'  to  the  readin'."  He 
opened  the  Book  and  commenced: 

"My  son,  keep  thy  father's  commandment,  and  for- 
sake not  the  law  of  thy  mother.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER   VII 

CHARITY  CORNER 

THEY  had  all  retired,  leaving  him  to  write  some 
letters  of  importance.  He  was  in  the  study — 
in  "Charity  Corner."  Jamie  had  led  the  way 
and  left  him  there.  The  same  old  study,  the  same  col- 
ored walls,  the  same  sloping  ceiling,  and  the  cherished 
red  ottoman  near  the  window;  it  was  as  though  the 
old  room  had  been  lifted  in  its  entirety  and  carried 
across  the  river.  The  furniture  was  arranged  as  he 
would  have  it ;  he  could  sit  on  the  ottoman  and  watch 
the  twinkling  mast-lights  of  the  outward-bound  steam- 
ers until  they  disappeared  around  the  bend  of  the 
river.  And  she  had  placed  the  old  bowls  of  flowers 
in  the  old  favored  positions. 

"And,  Jean,"  he  whispered,  as  he  drew  a  chair  to 
the  table  and  reached  for  a  pen,  "there's  the  same  old 
feeling  of  peace  and  quiet." 

He  wrote  steadily  for  half  an  hour;  then  the  pen 
dropped  from  his  fingers.  Someone  was  coming 
slowly  up  the  stairs.  He  knew  that  it  was  she;  but 
not  until  he  heard  her  pause  outside  in  the  corridor 
did  he  rise  and  go  to  the  door,  carrying  the  shaded 
oil-lamp  with  him. 

She  was  leaning  against  the  jamb  of  the  door,  and 
the  yellow  light  of  the  lamp  gave  her  thin,  pinched 

54 


CHARITY  CORNER 55 

face  an  unnatural  color.  She  had  taken  down  her  long 
brown  hair;  it  was  flowing  over  her  shoulders.  She 
might  have  been  about  to  retire  for  the  night,  when 
the  breaking  heart  urged  her  to  creep  upstairs  in 
search  of  further  sympathy. 

"Jean!"  he  whispered,  holding  the  lamp  above  his 
head. 

"I  startled  you,  Rob?" 

"I  was  writing.  .  .  .  Everything  was  so  quiet." 

He  stepped  back  into  the  room,  and  she  followed, 
noiselessly,  closing  the  door  behind  her,  and  turning 
the  key  in  the  lock.  He  replaced  the  lamp  on  the 
table,  and  held  out  his  hands  toward  her.  She  might 
not  have  seen  the  action,  for  she  moved  past  him,  and 
crept  to  the  ottoman.  For  a  long  while  he  looked  at 
her  without  speaking;  then  he  seated  himself  by  her 
side,  and  placed  his  right  arm  around  her  shoulders. 
She  half-covered  her  face  against  his  breast.  He  could 
feel  her  trembling. 

"Jean!     What  is  it?" 

She  opened  her  lips  so  slightly  that  the  words  were 
hardly  distinguishable,  running  into  each  other  as 
they  did. 

"I  couldn't  sleep,  Robert,  until  I  had  seen  you 
again." 

He  gathered  up  a  handful  of  the  brown  hair,  and 
dropped  it  again. 

"Your  mind  is  all  anyhow,"  he  whispered  sooth- 
ingly. "What  can  I  say  or  do?" 

"Don't  say  anything  yet,  Rob.  I — I  want  to  tell 
you  why  I  came  up  here." 


56  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"I'm  listening,  Jean."  And  now  he  was  trembling 
as  with  apprehension. 

"I  lied  to  you,  Robert,  and  I  couldn't  sleep.  I 
daren't  lie  to  you." 

"You  lied  to  me,  Jean?    What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  asked  me  to-night,  when  first  you  came  in, 
if  there  was  anything  else,  and  I  said  there  wasn't." 

"There  was  something  else?" 

She  moved  her  head  in  affirmation;  then  her  emo- 
tions broke  in  a  turbulent  stream;  she  lifted  her  hands 
to  her  face  and  sobbed:  "Oh,  Rob,  Rob,  I  wish  we 
were  bairns  again!" 

He  tightened  his  arms  about  her,  and  pressed  her 
to  him,  vainly  trying  to  still  her  sobs. 

"Ma  heirt  is  breakin',  Rob" — in  grief  she  rushed 
back  to  the  accent  of  their  childhood — "just  breakin', 
and  it's  no  because  o'  masel'.  It's  because  o'  what 
I've  brought  ye  tae." 

He  allowed  her  to  sob  uninterruptedly  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then : 

"Don't  you  think  you  had  better  go  to  bed,  Jean, 
woman?"  he  whispered  soothingly;  "you're  all  upset. 
In  the  morning  we'll  talk  about  it." 

"No,  Rob.  It  must  be  talked  about  now.  I  lied 
to  you.  There  was  something  else." 

For  a  second  he  dared  not  ask  her  what  that  some- 
thing was;  but  when  he  pressed  his  lips  against  her 
cheek,  and  reminded  her  of  the  confidence  they  had 
exchanged  as  children,  she  sank  slowly  to  the  floor, 
and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  resting  those  hands 
on  his  knee. 

"There's  no  one  in  the  world  who  would  under- 


CHARITY  CORNER  57 

stand  me,  save  you,  Rob.  There's  no  one  but  you  who 
would  forgive  me." 

"Jean,  my  bonnie  lass,"  he  whispered,  "what  are 
you  talking  about?  What  is  it  that  you  want  to  say 
to  me  ?  Why  don't  you  say  it  ?" 

"Don't  you  guess,  Robert?     Have  you  no  idea?" 

"Guess,  Jean?" 

"This  grief  of  mine — as  it  all  because  Willie  Hen- 
derson's dead?" 

And  still  he  plunged  in  doubt  and  misunderstand- 
ing. 

"Tell  me,  Jean!"  he  said,  in  desperation.  "Tell  me 
everything." 

"Willie,  he  loved  me,  and,  oh!  Rob,  it  meant  so 
much  to  me  after  you'd  gone,  because  no  one  in  this 
house  tried  to  'understand  me.  It  was  sympathy  I 
wanted,  and  you'd  gone!  Why  did  you  go?  Why 
didn't  you  take  me  with  you?  Robert,  don't  you  un- 
derstand?" 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead,  and  looked 
at  her  through  half -closed  eyes. 

"For  the  love  of  God,  Jean,"  he  said,  "tell  me  the 
truth." 

She  raised  her  head  so  that  he  might  look  into 
her  eyes,  eyes  through  which  the  heart  was  laid  bare. 
With  a  peculiar  cry  he  pushed  her  from  him  and 
leaped  to  his  feet. 

"Jean!" — there  was  horror  in  his  eyes — "you  don't 
mean  that?  You  can't  mean  that!  It  isn't  true! 
You're  fooling  me?" 

Her  lips  twitched  pitiably. 

"I'm  no  fooling  you,  Robert." 


58  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Damn  him !" 

She  threw  out  her  hands  imploringly. 

"Hush,  Robert !  For  the  love  of  God,  have  a  little 
pity!  He  loved  me.  He  was  kind  to  me.  I  wanted 
his  sympathy.  He  gave  it  to  me.  We  were  to  be 
married  soon.  Nobody  understood  me,  only  him  and 
you.  Nobody  in  this  house ;  they  were  all  so  different. 
You  understood." 

"The  damned  villain " 

"Robert !  Try  to  believe  that  he  loved  me.  No  one 
knows  what  I've  passed  through.  No  one  knows  what 
he  suffered,  in  that  last  minute  when  he  was  dying. 
He  loved  me  truly.  Don't  raise  your  voice,  Robert. 
They'll  hear,  and  they  won't  understand.  They'll 
never  understand.  They're  all  so  narrow.  They'd 
despise  me,  Robert ;  they'd  send  me  out.  I  nearly  went 
out,  after  he  died,  but  I  thought  of  you,  Robert,  and 
I  knew  that  out  of  the  past  you  would  drag  some 
memory  of  when  we  were  boy  and  girl  together,  and 
you'd  find  in  your  heart  just  a  grain  of  pity.  That's 
why  I  waited  for  your  return ;  I  didna  dare  go  with- 
out seein'  you,  although  I  was  sairly  tempted." 

He  had  crossed  over  to  the  table;  he  was  staring 
at  the  blank  notepaper  before  him.  The  word  "Dis- 
honor" seemed  to  emerge  from  the  whiteness  and 
laugh  mockingly  in  his  face.  He  looked  up  at  the 
farther  wall;  the  scriptural  texts,  worked  in  wool  by 
her  hand,  had  taken  to  themselves  the  same  hideous 
word.  He  thought — he  thought  of  Margaret  Dren- 
der  and  of  her  father,  and  he  saw  the  horror  on  their 
faces.  .  .  . 

"Rob.  ,      ." 


CHARITY  CORNER 59 

He  didn't  hear  her ;  he  didn't  look  round.  His  ears 
were  full  of  a  rushing  noise,  his  eyes  were  watching 
the  tumbling  and  crumbling  of  dream-castles — castles 
which  he  and  she  had  built  together. 

"Rob,  will  ye  no  forgive  me?" 

"Hush,  Jean!"  And  his  voice  was  strained  and 
hoarse. 

"Ye  canna  find  it  in  your  heirt  to  forgive  me.  .  .  . 
Rob !  Look !  It's  in  'Charity  Corner*  that  I'm  kneel- 
ing. Can  ye  no  think  of  the  hours.  .  .  .  Oh,  Rob! 
Rob!" 

He  had  come  again  to  her  side.  He  had  crushed 
her  to  him,  the  while  the  tears  flowed  from  his  eyes, 
dripping  on  her  dear  brown  hair.  He  saw  not  the 
woman  who  had  sinned ;  he  held  not  the  woman  who 
had  yielded  in  a  weak  moment;  he  kissed  not  the 
woman  who  had  sinned  for  the  sake  of  sinning,  or 
because  of  the  passion  of  the  moment ;  he  kissed,  and 
forgave,  and  asked  God  to  help  him  to  protect  the 
little  sister  of  thirteen  who  had  mothered  him  when 
the  MacKendricks  fought  him  on  the  banks  of  the 
Clyde,  and  she  chased  them  down  the  street  with  a 
broomstick  in  her  hand.  He  thought  not  of  the  dis- 
honor that  had  come  upon  the  MacWhinnies.  He 
thought  only  of  the  sanctuary  to  which  he  must  carry 
the  poor,  tortured  soul  of  his  little  sister.  He  thought 
not  of  his  own  ambitions — not  even  of  the  woman 
who  had  lifted  him  toward  the  heavens;  he  thought 
only  of  brown-haired  Jean,  and  how  he  might  help 
her. 

And  in  the  end  he  lifted  her  from  her  knees,  whence 
she  had  sunk  again,  and  placed  her  on  the  old  red 


60  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

ottoman.  Then  he  went  back  to  the  table,  saying: 
"Wait  a  minute,  Jean ;  wait  till  my  head  clears.  Don't 
speak.  Just  look  out  of  the  window  and  watch  the 
lights  go  by." 

He  picked  up  the  pen  and  commenced  to  write.  He 
spoke  to  her  over  his  shoulder: 

"I  do  understand,  Jean.  Better  than  you  imagine. 
.  .  .  Thank  God  I  came  back  in  time." 

Then  he  changed  his  tone  of  voice.  There  was  no 
inflection  that  would  lead  her  to  suppose  he  regarded 
what  he  contemplated  doing  as  a  sacrifice. 

"Jean,  I'm  going  back  to  Japan.  There's  work  to 
be  done  out  there — good  work,  and  big.  And  I  want 
a  housekeeper — a  housekeeper  just  like  you;  and 
you're  going  with  me.  We're  sailing  by  the  next  boat. 
Keep  quiet.  Tell  no  one  of  what  you've  told  me. 
Don't  speak.  I  know  you're  thinking  of  her.  But 
you  mustn't.  I'm  writing  to  the  Government  to  say 
that  I'm  coming  back  by  the  next  boat.  They  had  a 
shrewd  idea  that  I  would  return.  They  said  to  me: 
'You'll  not  be  able  to  stay  away;  you'll  feel  the  call 
in  your  blood,  just  as  they  all  do.'  And — and  I'm 
writing  to  her,  Jean." 

She  was  huddled  up  on  the  ottoman,  and  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  him  as  though  all  her  hopes  of  eternal 
peace  rested  on  his  decision. 

He  wrote  to  Margaret  Drender : 

"MARGARET. — I  arrived  home  to-night.  Something  has 
happened  to  prevent  my  seeing  you  to-morrow.  You  were 
right.  Love  should  be  only  an  incentive  to  work,  and  there 
is  work  for  me  to  do  on  the  other  side  of  the  world.  I  am 
going  away  almost  at  once,  without  even  seeing  you,  lest  the 
seeing  should  mean  the  staying.  ROBERT." 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE  WAY  BACK 

IMPULSIVENESS  is  not  heroism,  although  it  is 
very  closely  related.  The  coldly  analytical  mind 
may  suggest  many  reasons  for  the  sudden  re- 
solve of  Robert  MacWhinnie  to  defend  his  sister  Jean, 
whatever  might  be  the  consequences.  That  he  acted 
quickly — on  the  spur,  as  it  were — is  not  to  be  argued 
in  his  favor  nor  to  his  prejudice.  The  moment  was 
one  in  which  the  brain  was  bound  to  be  speeded — one 
of  those  moments  when  the  intricate  machinery  of  the 
mind  seems  to  concentrate  its  energy  to  one  end.  The 
way  out  of  the  difficulty  that  he  conceived  in  that  mo- 
ment was  possibly  the  most  natural  in  the  circum- 
stances. Perhaps  it  is  somewhat  easy  to  attribute  to 
him  the  virtues  of  a  hero,  but  it  is  not  to  lessen  his 
worth  to  suggest  that  he  was  not  without  the  weak- 
nesses of  the  race.  It  would  be  unjust  to  deprive 
him  of  a  shred  of  credit  for  what  he  proposed  to  do 
and  sacrifice  in  behalf  of  his  sister;  but,  in  trying 
to  be  just,  one  is  tempted  to  believe  that  his  own 
pride  had  been  wounded  by  Jean's  disclosure,  and  that, 
great  as  was  his  love  for  Margaret  Drender,  he  was 
ready  to  set  it  on  one  side  rather  than  that  she  should 
know  of  the  disgrace. 

"Disgrace"  is  a  hard  word  to  use,  but  this  is  a  con- 
61 


62  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

ventional  world,  and  Jean's  predicament  was  one  that 
will  never  be  known  as  anything  else  but  disgrace 
until  the  world  widens  its  point  of  view  and  considers 
circumstances  before  condemning.  In  Jean's  case,  her 
own  confession  to  Robert  must  be  recalled — whether 
it  be  to  her  advantage  or  otherwise.  It  was  sympathy 
for  which  she  hungered,  the  sympathy  that  was  de- 
nied her  at  home.  Long  afterward  Robert  came  to 
understand  the  difference,  in  her  case,  between  love 
and  sympathy. 

To  revert  to  Robert.  It  may  be  put  forward  that, 
in  acting  as  he  did,  he  paid  no  tribute  to  his  parents. 
If  they  could  not  find  it  in  their  hearts  to  pity  their 
daughter,  whence  was  she  to  seek  pity  at  all?  The 
only  reply  to  that  thought  is  that  no  one  in  the  house 
of  MacWhinnie  understood  better  the  mind  of  the 
Mac  Whinnies  than  did  Robert.  The  experience  which 
he  had  gained  of  men  and  matters  during  his  sojourn 
abroad  had  widened  the  mind  that  would  otherwise 
have  remained  cramped.  The  narrow  points  of  view 
which  had  been  inculcated  during  youth  were  changed ; 
he  had  a  wider  conception  of  human  nature ;  so  broad- 
ened had  his  mind  become  that  he  was  able  to  appre- 
ciate the  smallness  of  the  MacWhinnie  mind  at 
home,  and  make  allowance  for,  or  tolerate  it.  Therein 
lay  one  of  Robert  MacWhinnie's  greatest  qualities. 
He  could  come  back  to  that  narrow  circle,  yet  retain 
the  broadened  view  without  comment  or  protest. 

One  is  tempted  to  ask,  "Could  his  love  for  Mar- 
garet Drender  have  been  very  sincere,  if  he  was  so 
ready  to  cast  it  on  one  side  for  the  sake  of  pride,  for 
the  sake  of  his  sister?"  When  this  story  of  the 


THE  WAY  BACK 63 

Mac  Whinnies  shall  have  neared  its  end,  none  will  deny 
that  few  women  were  loved  so  deeply  as  was  Mar- 
garet. Those  three  years  in  the  Far  East  could  never 
have  been  lived  by  him  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  stimu- 
lating memories  of  Margaret  Drender.  His  ambition, 
always  swift  and  strong,  was  given  greater  impetus 
by  her  letters  of  devotedness  and  encouragement.  He 
worked  for  her,  making  her  the  starting-point  and 
the  goal. 

And  so  it  is  difficult  rightly  to  describe  all  that 
Robert  MacWhinnie  felt  that  night  in  the  little  study, 
when  the  broken-hearted  sister  knelt  at  his  feet  and 
poured  out  her  grief  incoherently,  yet  with  terrible 
significance.  There  is  another  line  of  thought  to  be 
pursued.  What  of  Jean?  What  nobleness  could 
there  have  been  in  her  heart?  Had  she  deliberately 
allowed  herself  to  accept  his  sacrifice  at  the  expense 
of  the  other  woman?  Was  the  great  love  which  he 
manifested  being  requited  by  her  willingness  to  say 
"yes"  to  the  proposals  he  made?  Is  it  inconceivable, 
or  unkind  to  suggest,  that  Jean  herself  felt  that  she 
was  paying  some  penalty  for  her  lapse  by  going  out  of 
the  country,  so  that  none  save  he  might  know  of  her 
shame?  Wasn't  it  to  save  the  honor  of  the  family, 
and  of  Robert  MacWhinnie? 

But  maybe  this  is  not  the  time  to  be  didactic,  or  to 
argue  the  many  phases  of  the  situation.  Enough 
that  he  saw  his  path  lying  white  and  shining  before 
him,  that  he  believed  it  was  his  duty.  Has  it  not  been 
said  already  that  Robert  MacWhinnie,  with  his  broad, 
open  face  and  prematurely  silvered  temples,  was  just 
the  man  to  be  born  to  trouble,  just  the  kind  of  man 


one  would  expect  to  meet  at  that  stile  of  the  proverb 
where  lame  dogs  foregather  and  whine  for  help  ? 

On  the  day  following  the  confession,  Jean  kept 
to  her  room.  Robert's  instructions  had  been  very  ex- 
plicit. Their  first  anxiety  must  be  to  keep  suspicion 
from  the  minds  of  their  parents.  He  knew,  and  Jean 
knew,  that  there  is  nothing  so  terrible  to  overcome 
as  the  prejudice  of  the  religionist  who  sets  his  religion, 
or  his  conception  of  religion,  before  pity,  blinding 
himself  the  while  to  the  fundamental  truth  that  pity 
is  the  greater  part  of  religion. 

"Jean,"  he  told  her,  "you  and  I  will  go  out  there, 
and  you  shall  help  me  to  make  the  name  of  MacWhin- 
nie  honored  by  that  nation  which  is  just  emerging 
from  feudalism.  We  shall  go  almost  immediately,  for 
I  promised  the  Government  out  there  that  they  should 
have  an  answer  to  their  proposals  before  I  had  been 
in  the  Old  Country  a  week." 

She  spoke  of  Margaret,  fearfully,  falteringly,  but 
with  adroitness  he  led  her  to  believe  that  he  could 
satisfactorily  explain  everything  to  the  woman  whose 
heart  was  in  his  keeping.  Long  after  Jean  went  to 
her  room  that  night  his  mind  grappled  with  the  new 
task  that  had  arisen.  He  anticipated  all  the  ques- 
tioning that  was  likely  to  be  aroused  by  his  sudden 
decision,  and  psychologically  he  studied  aright. 

At  midday  he  was  still  in  the  house,  and  had  given 
no  sign  of  any  intention  to  visit  the  Drenders.  Mrs. 
MacWhinnie,  with  the  observancy  of  her  sex,  re- 
marked the  fact  to  her  husband;  then  very  tactfully 
urged  the  rest  of  the  family  out  of  earshot  while 
she  questioned  her  son. 


THE  WAY  BACK 65 

He  was  writing  at  a  table  near  the  window;  she 
was  standing  a  few  paces  behind  him.  She  studied 
him  intently  for  a  moment;  the  rough,  red  fingers 
plucked  the  hem  of  her  apron. 

"Robert,  man,  ye'll  be  going  over  to  'Jarrowside' 
to-day?" 

"No,  mother."    He  went  on  writing. 

"Margaret  will  be  coming  here  ?" 

"I  don't  think  so,  mother.  I  wrote  to  her  last 
night." 

"Ye've  no  quarreled?" 

"No,  mother!  Nobody  could  quarrel  with  Mar- 
garet. I  thought  you  would  have  known  her  by  this 
time." 

"I  know  her  fine.    But  a's  no  weel  wi'  ye?" 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and,  looking  out  of 
the  window,  replied:  "Mother,  do  you  remember 
what  you  once  said  to  me — about  what  I  owed  to  the 
family  ?  I  have  been  thinking  about  that  a  great  deal 
lately.  I'm  still  a  young  man." 

"An'  a  grand  man!"  Her  voice  trembled  with 
pride. 

"And  there's  so  much  to  be  done  before  I  should 
think  of  considering  myself — < — " 

"Before  ye  marry,  Robert?" 

He  nodded,  and  kept  his  lips  tightly  closed,  so  that 
she  should  be  deceived  by  his  apparent  calmness. 

"I've  written  to  Margaret." 

"Ye  said  that  before,  Robert."  Now  she  was 
screwing  up  a  corner  of  her  lace  apron  between  finger 
and  thumb. 

"Margaret  will  be  the  last  person  in  the  world  to 


66  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

allow  our  engagement  to  hinder  me  in  my  ambitions." 

"The  very  last,  Robert.    She  told  me  that  hersel'." 

He  was  still  gazing  out  at  the  river. 

"Out  yonder,  in  the  Far  East,  a  man  who  has  his 
wits  about  him,  and  who  is  unfettered  by  sentiment 
of  any  kind,  may  rise  to  any  height.  He  may  achieve 
anything.  It  is  a  country  full  of  promise,  and,  what 
is  more,  there  are  other  lands  within  a  week's  sail 
where  brains  are  at  a  premium."  He  closed  his  eyes, 
as  though  he  were  recalling  reminiscences  for  her  ben- 
efit. In  truth,  he  was  afraid  that  his  eyes  would  be- 
tray him.  "I  met  many  influential  men  out  there, 
mother." 

"None  better  than  ye,  Robert." 

"And  they  tried  to  persuade  me  not  to  return  so 
early." 

"We  were  just  dyin'  to  see  ye." 

"Three  years  is  a  very  little  time,  and  I  had  achieved 
so  much.  Those  men  whom  I  met — men  of  capital 
and  position — told  me  that  in  Korea,  or  Siberia,  or 
even  in  the  island  of  Formosa,  a  man  who  knew  his 
profession  might  perform  miracles  in  the  space  of 
ten  years.  But  I  wanted  to  come  home — — "  (It 
came  out  suddenly,  and  with  the  suggestion  of  a  sob.) 
"I'm  not  a  man  entirely  without  sentiment  1  I  never 
knew  a  Scot  who  was." 

"Robert,  man!"  Her  hand  was  on  his  shoulder. 
"Pit  marriage  oot  o'  y'r  heid  for  a  bit  Wait  till  y'r 
brithers  have  had  the  chance  that  y'r  faither  was  able 
to  gi'e  you." 

He  smiled  a  little  sadly.  He  could  feel  the  weight 
of  the  millstones. 


THE  WAY  BACK  67 

"They  were  awfu'  guid  lads  when  we  set  about 
making  a  man  of  ye." 

"I  don't  forget  that,  mother." 

"They  worked  hard,  and  for  very  little,  but  they 
never  complained." 

"I  shall  try  to  do  what  is  right  by  them,  mother." 

"I  know  ye  will,  my  bonnie  lad."  Then,  with  a 
sigh,  half  relief,  half  regret:  "Margaret's  an  awf'y 
fine  woman,  but  I  think  she'll  say  all  that  I've  said, 
if  ye  put  it  to  her  in  the  right  way." 

"I've  already  done  that,  mother,"  he  said  quietly; 
"and  that's  what  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about." 

"I  knew  there  was  something  on  your  mind,  Rob- 
ert. I  was  watching  ye  all  the  breakfast  hour." 

"I  have  decided  to  go  back,"  he  said,  without  ap- 
pearing to  have  heard  her  remark.  "There's  a  mail 
boat  sailing  at  the  end  of  the  week." 

As  though  she  had  been  anticipating  this — hoping 
for  it — and  had  rehearsed  the  reply,  she  said : 

"But,  Robert,  man,  ye'll  have  been  hame  on'y  a  few 
days!" 

There  was  no  outburst  of  disappointment  at  the 
thought  of  parting  again  so  soon. 

The  holder  of  the  pen  snapped  under  the  pressure 
of  his  fingers. 

"It's  the  fear,  mother,  that  if  I  stay  longer,  the 
longer  I  shall  want  to  stay.  The  East  is  calling  to 
me,  just  as  it  calls  to  everybody.  I  feel  that  if  I  go 
out  now,  at  once,  everything  will  be  just  as  I  left  it. 
I'm  hungering  to  see  it  again,  to  take  up  the  work 
where  I  left  it.  Who  but  a  MacWhinnie  can  finish 
it?  Moreover,  the  Government  out  there  has  been 


68  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

exceedingly  kind  and  considerate.  I  don't  want  to 
play  the  part  of  pioneer  only.  I  want  to  go  on  with 
the  work  and  see  it  to  its  finish.  There's  a  delicate 
piece  of  work  to  be  done  in  Tokio  Harbor,  and  I  have 
a  great  scheme  in  my  mind  for  circumventing  the 
usual  results  of  a  seismic  disturbance — an  earthquake, 
mother.  .  .  .  I've  decided  to  go  back  by  the  ship  that 
sails  at  the  end  of  the  week.  And  I've  been  thinking, 
mother,  that,  if  anything  will  help  to  soften  the  grief 
of  Jean,  it  will  be  a  trip  to  the  Far  East." 

He  kept  his  eyes  on  the  writing-table  as  he  said 
this,  expecting  a  torrent  of  surprised  questioning. 
But,  instead  of  that,  Mrs.  MacWhinnie  said  very 
calmly : 

"That's  fine,  Robert— that's  fine." 

He  glanced  up  at  her,  suspicion  in  his  mind;  but 
her  next  words  quieted  it : 

"I  shall  be  easier  in  my  mind  if  Jean  is  wi'  ye  to 
manage  y'r  bit  hoose.  And,  after  a',  a  man  wi'  am- 
bition needs  on'y  a  housekeeper." 

At  the  moment  he  was  grateful  for  this  attitude  of 
hers,  but  there  came  a  day  when  he  realized  the  sel- 
fishness of  it.  That  was  long  afterward,  when  the 
burden  of  the  "duty"  that  was  expected  of  him  be- 
cause he  had  chosen  to  struggle  above  the  level  of 
the  other  members  of  the  family  weighed  down  upon 
him  until  his  crushed  spirit  groaned  beneath  it.  Jean 
was  to  be  a  kind  of  chaperon — a  restraining  influence ! 

In  the  evening,  when  all  the  members  of  the  fam- 
ily were  gathered  together,  Robert's  decision  was  made 
known  to  them  by  the  mother.  It  did  not  come  as  a 
surprise  to  Donald,  the  father,  because,  as  he  said, 


THE  WAY  BACK  69 

the  MacWhinnies  had  been  rovers  for  centuries,  and 
there  wasn't  a  known  part  of  the  inhabited  globe 
where  the  MacWhinnies  or  one  of  the  immediate 
offshoots  of  the  family  had  not  left  an  indelible  mark. 
They  would  have  questioned  Jean  about  her  feelings 
on  the  proposal,  but  here  Robert  intervened.  And 
of  all  the  chivalry  that  he  showed  toward  his  sister, 
perhaps  this  part  of  it  was  greatest;  for  he  under- 
stood completely  the  drama  on  which  he  and  she  had 
entered,  and  he  played  his  part  with  wonderful  sub- 
tlety. It  was  through  him — with  his  lips — that  silent 
Jean  reveled  in  the  prospect;  through  him  that  she 
described  the  glory  of  sitting  with  him  on  the  veranda 
of  a  Japanese  bungalow,  of  reading  with  him  in  the 
hazy  nights,  when  the  cicada  were  crooning  their  love 
songs  in  the  cherry  trees;  of  watching  from  the  near 
distance  the  certain  progress  he  would  make,  of  being 
near  him  in  the  moment  of  his  triumph. 

Donald  MacWhinnie  did  not  concern  himself  with 
the  feelings  of  Margaret  Drender,  nor  did  the  other 
members  of  the  family.  Among  them,  at  that  time, 
there  was  a  spirit  of  jealousy.  Anything  that  sug- 
gested intrusion  on  what  they  had  come  to  regard 
as  theirs  alone  was  keenly,  yet  almost  unwittingly,  re- 
sented. During  that  week  Margaret  Drender's  name 
was  mentioned  only  once,  and  then  by  David,  the 
youngest  brother.  He  wondered  aloud,  and  in  the 
presence  of  his  mother,  what  Margaret  would  think 
about  it  all,  and  why  Robert  hadn't  visited  "Jarrow- 
side."  He  answered  his  own  questions,  by  saying 
musingly:  "Maybe  Rob  thinks  he  has  a  big  enough 
family  now." 


70  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Mrs.  MacWhinnie  had  paused  in  crossing  the  floor 
to  listen  to  David's  words.  As  he  made  that  last 
remark  she  drew  in  a  deep  breath,  as  though  about  to 
add  her  opinion;  but  apparently  she  deemed  it  best 
to  let  well  alone,  for  all  that  she  said,  as  she  continued 
her  way  to  the  door,  was :  "Ye  haver,  David — ye  do." 

And  so,  within  a  week  after  his  arrival  from  the 
Far  East,  Robert  MacWhinnie  began  to  repack  his 
oaken  chest  and  portmanteaux,  and  turn  his  face  to 
the  river  leading  out  to  the  open  sea.  And  if,  now, 
he  was  only  playing  the  part  of  one  whose  ambition 
could  not  be  satiated— one  whose  nervous  system 
would  not  admit  of  a  moment's  bodily  rest — he  played 
it  like  a  master  of  histrionics.  Throughout  the  prep- 
arations Jean  maintained  an  attitude  of  resignation 
equally  calculated  to  disarm  suspicion;  she  was  con- 
tent to  leave  everything  to  this  great,  broad-shouldered 
brother  who  had  taken  her  burden  to  himself;  and 
the  seeming  lightness  with  which  he  regarded  it 
lessened  in  her  the  pain  of  obligation.  Indeed,  she 
became  much  brighter  as  the  day  for  sailing  ap- 
proached, and  manifested  interest  in  the  readings 
about  Japan  which  her  father  insisted  on  giving  of 
an  evening. 

Robert  went  out  of  the  house  only  seldom  during 
that  week.  Always  he  was  writing.  Not  for  an 
instant  did  he  raise  a  fear  in  Jean's  mind  that  he  was 
suffering  any  regret  for  the  self-imposed  task.  So 
buoyant  was  he  in  spirit,  and  so  ready  to  give  laugh 
for  laugh,  that  she  came  to  believe  he  was  glad  of 
the  chance  to  resume  the  work  that  had  been  left 
unfinished. 


THE  WAY  BACK  71 

During  the  week  Robert  was  able  to  study  the  bent 
of  each  of  his  brothers,  and  if  he  did  not  come  to 
the  conclusion  that,  without  the  knowledge  of  pos- 
sessing a  leaning-post,  they  might  have  shown  greater 
promise,  it  was  because  of  his  simple  generosity  of 
mind.  Even  David,  the  youngest,  had  come  to  rest 
against  that  post.  He,  too,  was  now  engaged  in  the 
offices  of  Drender,  Masters  and  Co.,  and,  as  his  father 
said,  if  he  paid  half  the  attention  to  the  keeping  of 
the  books  that  he  did  to  the  set  of  his  coat  and  collar, 
Mr.  John  Drender  received  value  for  money. 

"You're  growing  into  a  giant  of  a  MacWhinnie," 
Robert  said  playfully.  "By  the  time  Jean  and  I  come 
back  you'll  be  a  man." 

"A  married  man,"  put  in  Jamie  slyly.  "Dave  has  a 
way  with  him  already." 

Robert  frowned  his  displeasure  at  the  lightness  of 
the  remark. 

"When  I  was  David's  age "  he  began. 

David  selected  a  cigarette  from  a  silver  case  and 
jauntily  placed  it  between  his  lips. 

"I  never  work  after  hours,  Rob,"  he  said,  with  a 
jerk  of  the  head;  and  he  strutted  out  of  the  room 
to  the  accompaniment  of  laughter  from  Jamie. 

Thomas  kept  his  distance  during  the  week;  and 
Robert  did  not  attempt  to  draw  him  out  of  his  reserve. 
Once,  he  ventured  a  question  about  the  labor  condi- 
tions prevailing  in  the  Far  East,  but  added,  in  a 
casual  way,  and  before  a  reply  could  be  given,  that 
he  supposed  there  was  sufficient  iniquity  among  the 
moneyed  classes  of  England  to  keep  him  at  home 
for  some  years  to  come. 


72  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Not  one  of  the  brothers  conveyed  any  expression  of 
appreciation  of  what  had  been  done  for  them  by  Rob- 
ert; the  fact  that  month  after  month  they  had  enjoyed 
increased  comfort  in  the  home  from  the  liberal  por- 
tion of  his  salary  which  he  sent  to  the  parents  ap- 
peared to  have  been  overlooked.  Robert  offered  no 
comment  on  this. 

It  may  truthfully  be  said  that,  in  the  few  days  prior 
to  sailing  again,  Robert  MacWhinnie  showed  abun- 
dant heroism.  But  this  must  be  told,  and  no  one,  not 
even  Jean,  ever  knew  of  it.  The  night  before  the 
ship  sailed  Robert  went  down  to  "Jarrowside."  He 
was  closely  muffled  up,  so  that  none  should  recognize 
him,  and  for  two  long  hours  he  walked  around  and 
about  the  house,  hoping,  even  praying,  that  he  might 
catch  one  glimpse  of  the  woman  whose  letters  he  treas- 
ured as  stepping-stones  to  triumph.  He  stood  by  the 
gate  where  she  had  rested  for  a  moment  in  his  arms; 
he  lived  that  scene  over  again — he  lived  it  over  a 
thousand  times  and  more  before  he  saw  her  again. 
And  in  her  room,  even  as  he  stood  there  at  the  gate, 
Margaret  Drender  was  sitting  with  his  letter  crushed 
in  her  hand.  She  misjudged  him,  as  everyone  who 
was  dear  to  him,  save  Jean,  misjudged  him  through- 
out his  life;  but  she  was  too  proud  in  spirit  to  seek 
comfort  from  the  rugged  ironmaster  in  the  study 
beneath.  Robert  MacWhinnie  had  said  very  little  in 
his  letter,  but  to  a  woman  of  imagination  it  was  easy 
of  expansion. 

The  ship  sailed  on  the  first  tide  in  the  morning. 
The  MacWhinnies  were  gathered  on  the  quay,  and  as 
the  vessel  backed  away  into  mid-river  the  brothers 


THE  WAY  BACK  73 

gave  a  final  cheer,  while  Mrs.  MacWhinnie  wiped  the 
tears  out  of  her  eyes  with  a  bonnet  string,  saying  to 
her  husband  as  she  did  so :  "Donald,  man,  it's  just 
awfu'  to  hae  bairns,  because  if  they're  no  breakin' 
y'r  heirt  wi'  their  comings  hame,  they're  breakin'  it 
wi'  their  gaein's  awa'!" 


CHAPTER    IX 

MASTER  AND  MAN 

ALTHOUGH  Mr.  John  D render  was  one  of  the 
first  to  be  advised  of  Robert  MacWhinnie's 
departure  from  Japan,  he  did  not  learn  of  the 
arrival  in  England,  and  the  hasty  decision  to  leave 
it  again,  until  the  outward-bound  ship  must  have  been 
breaking  into  the  swells  of  the  Bay  of  Biscay.  His 
daughter  Margaret  had  not  as  yet  acquainted  him  with 
the  blow  that  had  been  aimed  at  her,  preferring  to 
suffer  in  silence  until  she  should  have  had  some  fur- 
ther letter  of  explanation  from  Robert.  The  news  of 
the  arrival  and  the  departure  was  gathered  from  the 
lips  of  Donald  MacWhinnie,  and  the  conversation 
that  took  place  in  the  ironmaster's  private  office  at 
the  works  is  helpful  in  the  study  of  the  relations  be- 
tween master  and  man — the  man  whom  he  was  com- 
pelled to  regard  as  one  having  a  stronger  claim  on 
his  sympathies  than  any  of  the  other  employees.  It 
was  characteristic  of  the  ironmaster  that  he  learned 
of — or,  rather,  guessed  at — the  sufferings  of  his 
daughter  without  a  quiver  of  the  eyelids,  or  an  ex- 
clamation that  would  betray  his  emotion.  In  the 
conversation  with  Donald  MacWhinnie  he  main- 
tained the  attitude  of  the  employer  throughout,  giv- 

74 


MASTER  AND  MAN 75 

ing  no  sign  that  he  was  aware  of  the  attachment 
between  his  daughter  and  Robert.  As  the  little  Scots- 
man came  into  the  office,  thoughtfully  stroking  his 
short,  grizzled  beard,  Mr.  Drender,  without  looking 
up,  dismissed  his  secretary,  and  said:  "You  may  be 
seated,  MacWhinnie." 

"I  prefer  to  stand,"  said  the  little  man. 

"As  you  please,"  said  Mr.  Drender.  "I  was  only 
studying  your  comfort." 

"It's  the  'may  be  seated'  I  don't  like." 

Mr.  Drender  pushed  back  his  chair  and  carefully 
studied  the  small,  flinty  eyes. 

"You  have  been  with  the  firm  a  long  while  now, 
MacWhinnie." 

"Longer  than  I  care  to  think  about,  Mr.  Drender 
— and  I  seem  to  be  where  I  started  from." 

"Whose  fault  is  that?" 

"I'm  makin'  no  complaints." 

"And  I've  heard  none  against  you,  MacWhinnie — 
none  that  I  can  remember." 

"Ye  didna  send  for  me  to  tell  me  that,  Mr.  Dren- 
der." 

"No,  I  didn't.  Dickenson  has  been  here  this  morn- 
ing— the  foreman  of  the  lathe-shop." 

MacWhinnie  squinted  suspiciously  along  his  nose. 
There  was  belligerency  in  the  way  he  fingered  his. 
beard. 

"To  complain?  I'm  no  certain  in  my  mind  that 
I've  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Mr.  Dickenson." 

"He  came  to  talk  to  me  about  your  son  Thomas." 

"Ye  might  have  had  a  worse  subject,  Mr.  Drender." 
He  was  shaping  himself  for  a  quarrel. 


76  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"In  ordinary  circumstances  I  should  have  had  no 
hesitation  in  acting  on  my  foreman's  advice.  As  it 
is,  having  regard  to  your  long  service,  I  thought  I 
would  like  to  speak  to  you  about  him  first." 

"About  Tammas?     What's  he  been  doing?" 

"To  be  candid,"  said  Mr.  Drender,  "your  son 
Thomas  would  be  all  the  better  for  a  little  heart-to- 
heart  talk  with  his  father." 

MacWhinnie  gave  the  points  of  his  beard  an  up- 
ward flick — a  certain  sign  of  heated  temper. 

"Tammas  is  ma  first-born,  an'  I'm  ready  to  hear 
an'  answer  onythin'  that  ony  man  has  to  say  agin' 
him.  He  knows  his  work — none  better." 

"I  don't  doubt  that  he  knows  his  work,  MacWhin- 
nie. Apparently,  the  only  thing  he  doesn't  know  is 
which  side  his  bread  is  buttered  on." 

"Ye  might  ha'e  said  the  same  thing  about  Robert." 
The  little  head  nodded  as  to  say,  "That's  one  to  me." 

Mr.  Drender  frowned  impatiently. 

"We're  not  discussing  Robert  at  the  moment,"  he 
said.  "Unfortunately,  there's  seldom  more  than  one 
clear  head  in  a  family." 

"Which  is  no  paying  much  of  a  tribute  to  me,  Mr. 
Drender — me,  that  brought  them  up." 

"It's  because  I'm  anxious  to  pay  a  tribute  to  your 
worth,  MacWhinnie,  that  I  have  sent  for  you  to-day 
to  discuss  this  trouble  about  Thomas.  He  talks  too 
much." 

"It's  no  a  sin." 

"That  depends  on  his  choice  of  subject,  and  to 
whom  he  talks.  Your  son  Thomas  appears  to  have 
imbibed  a  great  deal  of  nonsense,  doled  out  to  him, 


MASTER  AND  MAN 


and  those  like  him,  by  orange-box  orators  on  a  Sunday 
morning.  You  should  keep  him  out  of  the  parks,  Mac- 
Whinnie." 

"Tammas  is  no  boy.  He's  a  man.  He's  older  than 
Robert." 

"I  think  I  said  just  now,  MacWhinnie,  that  we 
were  not  discussing  Robert." 

"If  Robert's  no  less  a  MacWhinnie  than  he  was 
a  while  ago,  he  would  be  wi'  me  in  saying  that  when 
ye  discuss  one  MacWhinnie  ye  discuss  them  a'." 

"MacWhinnie,  I  want  you  thoroughly  to  under- 
stand that,  in  sending  for  you  this  morning,  I  broke 
one  of  the  iron  rules  of  Drender,  Masters  and  Com- 
pany. I  preferred  to  give  another  chance  to  one  who 
had  been  ear-marked  by  a  trusted  foreman." 

"I've  asked  you,"  said  MacWhinnie  truculently, 
"to  tell  me  what  it  is  that  Tammas  has  done.  He 
doesna  gae  to  the  park  when  he  should  be  in  the  shop." 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Drender;  "but  he  brings  the  park 
to  the  shop;  and  if  there  is  one  person  against  whom 
I  set  my  face  it  is  the  sower  of  discord." 

"Tammas  is  a  mischief-maker — is  that  what  ye're 
telling  me?" 

"I'm  merely  repeating  to  you  the  information  that 
has  been  brought  to  me  by  one  who  has  been  with  the 
firm  nearly  thirty  years,  and  whose  character  is  as 
white  as  that  sheet  of  notepaper  before  me.  Your 
son  Thomas  appears  to  have  some  grievance.  He 
has  been  asked  to  state  it,  but  prefers  to  go  among 
the  men  preaching,  as  I  said  just  now,  something 
very  much  like  rebellion." 

"It's  the  first  time  I've  ever  heard  of  Tammas  doing 


78  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

ony thing  o'  the  sort.  If  I  have  one  quiet  son,  Mr. 
Drender,  it's  my  boy  Tammas.  Rebellion?  I  like 
that.  Mebbe  there's  mair  in  it  than  you  think." 

"Exactly  what  I  was  about  to  say,  MacWhinnie." 

"Ay — from  Tammas's  point  o'  view.  It's  no  likely 
that  Dickenson " 

"Mr.  Dickenson,  MacWhinnie." 

"Then  Mr.  MacWhinnie,  Mr.  Drender.  It's  no 
likely,  I  was  sayin',  that  your  foreman" — he  paused, 
and  there  was  a  flash  of  triumph  in  his  eyes — "would 
tell  ye  Tammas's  side  o'  the  case." 

"I'm  not  going  to  argue  about  the  matter,  Mac- 
Whinnie." And  here,  also,  there  was  a  dramatic 
pause,  with  just  as  much  triumph  in  Mr.  Drender's 
eyes.  "Your  son  Thomas  was  taken  into  these  works 
when  he  was  a  boy,  and  he's  been  shown  every  con- 
sideration by  those  above  him.  So  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, he  may  climb  his  orange  boxes  and  tell  every 
wind  of  heaven  what  he  thinks  about  the  oppression 
of  labor  by  capital ;  but  he  mustn't  do  it  in  my  works. 
Capital — or  as  much  of  it  as  I  and  my  partner  repre- 
sent— provides  your  son  with  food  and  clothing,  just 
so  long  as  he  gives  an  honest  return  for  the  money 
we  pay  him.  If,  in  his  opinion,  that  wage  is  too  small, 
let  him  come  into  this  office,  as  you  have  come  this 
morning,  and  convince  us  that  he's  worth  more.  But 
it  must  be  understood  that,  if  we  cannot  have  loyalty 
in  a  servant,  we  don't  want  that  servant.  And  I 
thought  that,  in  taking  this  course — in  appealing  to 
you,  as  his  father — I  was  doing  a  kindness  to  both 
of  you.  Apparently,  I  was  mistaken." 

"Ye  were  no  mistaken  about  Robert,  were  ye,  Mr. 


MASTER  AND  MAN  79 

Drender?  I  suppose  that  if  Robert  had  no  gi'en  ye 
evidence  of  his  ability  ye  wad  ha'e  been  ready  to 
treat  him  as  ye're  treating  Tammas  now?" 

"MacWhinnie,  you  try  my  patience." 

"Does  it  no  occur  to  ye,  Mr.  Drender,  that  Tammas 
is  no  without  brains?" 

"I'm  not  concerned  with  his  brains  at  the  moment. 
I'm  disturbed  by  his  stupidity." 

"Mebbe,  it's  because  Tammas  has  mair  brains  than 
Robert  that  ye're  so  oneasy  in  your  mind.  Tammas 
has  a  faculty  for  inventin',  Mr.  Drender.  So  had 
Robert,  ye  say?  Ay,  but  mebbe  Tammas  has  the 
brains  to  keep  his  inventions  to  hisself.  Does  that 
sink  in,  Mr.  Drender?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand  you." 

"No;  but  I'll  warrant  that  ye'll  think  it  out  before 
nicht." 

"There's  no  more  to  be  said,  MacWhinnie.  Al- 
ready you  have  been  given  too  much  latitude.  You 
may  go  back  to  your  shop.  Again  I  beg  of  you  to 
speak  to  your  son  Thomas,  and  advise  him  that,  if  he 
would  keep  his  place  in  the  firm  of  Drender,  Masters 
and  Company,  he  must  learn  first  to  keep  a  still 
tongue  in  his  head.  Our  men  are  not  slaves.  We 
pay  the  union  rate  of  wages.  We  endeavor  to  be  con- 
siderate to  everyone,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest. 
That  is  one  of  the  main  principles  on  which  the  repu- 
tation of  the  firm  has  been  built  up.  Drive  that  into 
your  son's  head.  Good-morning,  MacWhinnie." 

"Nay,  nay!"  said  Donald.  "I'm  no  going  to  be 
dismissed  like  that,  Mr.  Drender.  Ye  can't  insult  a 
faither  and  stop  at  'guid-morning.'  I'll  speak  to  Tarn- 


80  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

mas,  and  I'll  advise  him  that  it's  about  time  he  placed 
a  richt  value  on  his  brains,  and  found  another  place 
where  he'd  be  mair  appreciated." 

Mr.  Drender  had  resumed  his  writing.  MacWhin- 
nie  backed  to  the  door. 

"I've  already  told  his  faither  that,"  he  said  de- 
fiantly. "I'm  leaving  Drender,  Masters  and  Company 
to-day.  Mebbe  they'll  get  on  without  me,  mebbe 
they  won't ;  but  I'll  no  stay  here  to  be  insulted,  when 
it's  plain  to  everybody  as  has  the  eyes  to  see" — he 
raised  his  voice — "that  if  it  hadna  been  for  Donald 
MacWhinnie's  son  Robert  the  firm  of  Drender,  Mas- 
ters and  Company  wouldna  be  where  it  is  to-day.  And 
ye  can  let  that  sink  in,  Mr.  Drender.  On'y  three 
days  ago  I  said  to  Robert ' 

The  gray  head  was  lifted  from  the  writing-table. 

"Ah!"  MacWhinnie  said  sneeringly,  "ye  didna  ken 
that  Robert  was  hame.  And  has  naebody  told  ye  that 
he's  gone  awa'  again — before  ye  or  your  partner  had 
time  to  profit  further  frae  the  lad's  brains?" 

Again  Mr.  Drender  picked  up  his  pen. 

"Close  the  door  quietly  as  you  go  out,  MacWhin- 
nie," he  said. 

That  night,  and  while  they  were  dining  alone,  as 
usual,  John  Drender  suddenly  looked  up  at  Margaret. 

"When  did  Robert  MacWhinnie  reach  England?" 
he  asked. 

She  answered  him  promptly,  and  without  a  tremor 
in  her  voice. 

"You  didn't  tell  me  about  it?" 

"No,  father.  You  were  so  preoccupied  with  the 
Odessa  contract." 


MASTER  AND  MAN  81 

He  muttered  "H'm!"  and  resumed  his  meal.  Then, 
and  with  equal  suddenness :  "When  did  he  go  away?" 

And  again  she  answered  him  without  betraying 
herself.  She  knew  that,  from  under  the  shelter  of 
his  bushy  gray  eyebrows,  he  was  watching  her  closely, 
but  she  had  perfect  command  of  herself. 

Mr.  Drender  bent  again  to  his  plate. 

"He  didn't  tell  me  that  he  was  going  back.  Quick 
work,  wasn't  it? — home  and  away  again  within  a 
week?" 

The  tears  were  ready  to  flood  into  her  eyes,  but 
with  great  courage  she  mastered  them,  and  prepared 
to  utter  the  lie  that  had  been  framing  itself  for  days. 

"It  was  my  wish  that  he  should  return,"  she  said. 

"Your  wish,  Margaret  ?" 

"He  was  doing  so  splendidly  out  there,  and  it 
seemed — well,  the  right  thing  to  do :  to  encourage  him, 
to  urge  him  to  greater  success.  They  were  anxious 
that  he  should  go  back,  although  I  don't  suppose  they 
expected  him  to  return  so  soon." 

"You  urged  him  to  go  back?" 

"He  was  always  so  ready  to  take  the  advice  offered 
by  me — or  you." 

"What  do  you  think  about  it  now  ?" 

"I  think  he  did  the  right  thing — don't  you?  He 
will  probably  be  away  another  three  years.  In  that 
time  he  should  be  able  to  lay  the  foundations  of  a 
great  future." 

John  Drender  remained  silent  for  a  while,  but  his 
eyes  never  left  her  face.  Then,  in  a  voice  that 
throbbed  with  admiration,  he  said: 

"Margaret,  you're  a  wonderful  girl !    A  level-headed 


82  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

girl  like  you  is  all  that  a  man  needs  to  help  him  along. 
Well  done,  Margaret — and  well  done,  Robert  Mac- 
Whinnie!  Work  first!" 

Another  period  of  silence;  then,  as  he  sipped  his 
coffee,  he  recalled  the  incident  of  the  morning. 

"I  sent  for  Donald  MacWhinnie  this  morning,"  he 
said,  "and  I'm  sorry  now  that  the  conversation  took 
the  turn  it  did,  after  what  you've  told  me." 

"I'm  listening,  father."  And  for  the  first  time  she 
showed  some  nervousness. 

"It  was  a  very  different  MacWhinnie  from  the  one 
I  knew  some  years  ago.  I  sent  for  him  to  advise  him 
about  his  son  Thomas." 

"Robert's  elder  brother?" 

John  Drender  nodded. 

"He's  been  making  a  fool  of  himself — agitating  the 
men.  He  has  what  his  kinsfolk  call  a  bee  in  the  bon- 
net, and  I  hoped  that  when  his  father  had  heard  me, 
he'd  do  his  best  to  get  rid  of  it.  But,  oh,  no !  He  took 
the  wrong  attitude.  He  was  rude  and  resentful.  The 
truth  is,  Margaret,  that  Robert  MacWhinnie  must  ex- 
pect to  carry  the  whole  family  on  his  back.  They're 
living  on  his  success.  .  .  .  He  was  very  rude,  and 
gave  me  to  understand  that  to-day  would  be  the  last 
day  he  would  spend  with  the  firm." 

Her  cheeks  had  become  pale  of  a  sudden. 

"Father,  you  don't  mean  that?" 

"And  if  he  hadn't  given  me  his  notice,  I  would 
have  given  it  to  him ;  and  Thomas  will  follow  him  to- 
morrow." 

"Father" — she  moved  to  his  chair,  rested  her  hands 


MASTER  'AND  MAN 83 

on  his  shoulders,  and  looked  away  from  him — "do  you 
want  to  please  me  more  than  ever  before?" 

"What  is  it,  Margaret?" 

"I  want  you  to  write  to  Donald  MacWhinnie,  and 
withdraw  everything  you  said  about  his  son  Thomas. 
And  I  want  you  to  ask  Thomas  in  a  quiet  way  to  go 
on  with  his  work,  and  bring  any  grievance  he  may 
have  before  you,  so  that  it  may  be  inquired  into." 

"My  dear  Margaret!"  He  half  turned,  so  that  she 
couldn't  avoid  his  eyes.  "Do  you  know  what  you're 
asking?" 

"I  have  a  reason  for  it — a  strong  reason." 

"You're  thinking  of  Robert,  and  of  what  he'll 
think." 

"Yes,  I'm  thinking  of  Robert,  and  of  what  he'll 
think;  and  it's  because  I  know  what  he'll  think  that  I 
want  you  to  do  as  I  have  suggested." 

"You  can't  be  serious,  Margaret!  You  wouldn't 
have  me  apologize  to  the  likes  of  them?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  an  apology;  at  least,  not  to  those 
intelligent  enough  to  understand  your  relative  posi- 
tions. And  I  would  much  rather  you  apologize  than 
seem  to  be  mean  and  spiteful." 

His  manner  changed  at  once. 

"You  shall  have  your  own  way,  little  girl." 

And  as  she  went  to  her  own  room  that  night,  the 
kindly  look  in  his  eyes  deceived  her. 

There  was  something  wrong,  he  said  to  himself. 


CHAPTER    X 

TEARS   BEHIND   THE   SMILES 

A  WOMAN  is  never  so  lovable  as  when  she  is 
trying  to  deceive  the  world  about  her  own 
unhappiness.  During  the  few  weeks  immedi- 
ately following  the  departure  of  Robert  MacWhinnie 
and  his  sister,  Margaret  Drender  crept  closer  than 
ever  to  the  heart  of  her  father.  Not  once  in  that  time 
did  she  give  him  an  opportunity  to  question  her. 
Throughout  the  day  the  laughter  of  the  wind  as  it 
swept  up  the  river  was  in  her  voice ;  only  the  sun  was 
reflected  in  her  great  dark  eyes.  Courage  is  the  pre- 
rogative of  woman,  no  matter  what  the  claims  of  man. 
Margaret  completely  deceived  the  gray  old  ironmas- 
ter, who  secretly  guessed  at  a  rupture.  She  almost 
deceived  herself. 

And  then  came  his  letter.  In  a  measure  it  was  ex- 
pected by  her,  for  even  in  those  moments  when  she 
had  tried  her  hardest  to  steel  her  heart  against  him,  she 
could  not  accuse  him  of  cowardice;  he  was  bound  to 
write  something.  If  it  were  only  a  threadbare  excuse, 
he  would  write  it.  The  letter  came  on  a  morning  when 
she  was  wondering  how  much  longer  she  would  be 
able  to  keep  up  the  deceit  of  indifference,  when  she 
was  doubting  her  strength  of  mind  to  go  through  an- 

84 


TEARS  BEHIND  THE  SMILES  85 

other  day  with  a  smile  in  her  eyes  and  a  pain  in  her 
heart.  And  although  the  letter  left  her  practically 
where  she  was,  it  palliated  the  pain. 

"S.  S.  Hikasa  Maru. 
"COLOMBO. 

"My  DEAR  MARGARET. — Every  day  since  we  left  Tilbury 
I  have  sat  down  in  the  quiet  of  my  cabin  to  write  this 
letter,  and  the  task  has  been  as  great  a  torture  as  the  read- 
ing of  the  letter  must  be  to  you.  Your  love — the  love  that 
I  joyed  in — the  love  that  showed  me  the  stars  when  all  else 
was  dark  and  forbidding,  must  be  changed  to  scorn.  You 
must  in  your  heart  believe  that  God  would  have  been  kinder 
had  we  never  been  allowed  to  meet,  to  know  each  other,  to 
share  the  confidences  of  each  other.  You  are  gone  from 
me.  I  know  that.  I  feel  it.  I  have  sacrificed  that  which 
I  held  most  dear,  and  yet,  even  in  this  calm  which  comes 
after  the  storm  of  impulse,  even  now,  when  I  can  sit  alone 
and  reflect  on  all  that  has  happened,  I  feel  that  if  you  were 
cognizant  of  the  facts,  your  love,  instead  of  changing  to 
scorn,  would  be  deepened.  And  I  dare  not  plead  for  a 
continuance  of  that  love,  for  even  you,  my  Margaret,  must 
not  be  privy  to  my  thoughts.  Would  that  you  could  think 
of  me  as  on  that  dear  night  when  first  I  held  you  in  my 
arms. 

"I  am  on  my  way  back  to  the  Far  East,  where  work 
awaits  me,  and  Jean,  my  beloved  sister,  is  accompanying  me. 
She  seems  to  be  very  happy.  Only  a  few  minutes  ago  I 
heard  her  voice,  singing  an  old  Scottish  ballad  that  we  used 
to  sing  as  children.  I  want  her  to  be  happy.  I  know  that 
you,  with  your  great  heart,  would  like  her  to  be  happy.  Out 
yonder  she  is  going  to  be  my  housekeeper.  I  listen  to  her 
talking  of  the  prospect  with  my  heart  aching.  Is  it  pos- 
sible for  you  to  believe  this:  When  I  arrived  in  England 
a  few  weeks  ago  my  heart  was  bursting  for  sight  of  you.  I 
remember  that  when  first  the  white  cliffs  of  Dover  broke 
through  the  haze  of  morning  as  we  steamed  up  the  Channel, 
I  leaned  over  the  side  and  held  out  my  arms  toward  them ; 
it  was  your  dear  face  that  I  saw,  your  arms  that  were  held 
out  to  mine.  In  the  East  I  had  applied  myself  to  work  even 


86  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

as  you  had  wished.  With  the  promise  of  your  dear  self 
before  me  I  set  out  to  achieve  that  which  would  have  seemed 
hopeless  of  achievement  without  your  love  and  encourage- 
ment. Among  the  whites  out  yonder  I  was  known  as  'The 
lucky  dog.'  They  had  no  such  stimulus  as  I  possessed.  1 
used  to  laugh  at  their  envy — good-natured  envy.  I  wonder 
if  I  shall  be  able  to  laugh  now.  They  will  call  me  'The 
lucky  dog'  again,  for  I  mean  to  work  as  I  never  worked  be- 
fore. If  they  only  knew! 

"Margaret,  bear  with  me  a  little  while.  When  I  reached 
the  river  on  my  way  home  it  was  as  though  the  whole  world 
had  moved  aside  to  show  me  you,  awaiting  me.  And  yet  I 
left  the  country  without  seeing  you,  without  exchanging 
a  single  word.  The  short  note  I  dispatched  to  'Jarrowside' 
was  terrible  in  its  brevity.  You  must  have  thought  that  for 
three  years  I  had  been  devising  the  letter  that  would  hurt 
the  most.  But  if  I  had  seen  you,  Margaret,  I  could  not 
have  done  that  which  I  have  done,  and  I  am  satisfied  that 
the  task  I  have  undertaken  was  meant  for  me.  How  easy 
it  is  to  encourage  fatalism !  I  am  beginning  to  believe  that 
in  the  beginning  some  men  and  some  women  are  deliberately 
chosen  for  sacrifice  that  others  may  be  guided — chosen,  not 
because  of  omissions,  but  because  they  are  regarded  as  the 
right  and  proper  instruments.  Are  they  to  be  rewarded  for 
those  sacrifices  ?  Does  God  mean  that  a  man  or  a  woman 
shall  undergo  pain  and  suffering  without  their  having  mer- 
ited it  ?  .  .  .  Oh !  I  could  fight  this  out  to  a  thousand 
conclusions,  but  I  must  learn  so  to  school  myself  that  the 
joy  of  the  last  three  years  will  stand  as  the  reward  in  ad- 
vance of  the  duty  undertaken. 

''How  I  loved  you,  Margaret — loved  you  as  I  believe  few 
men  could  have  loved !  And  you  loved  me.  I  was  happy 
in  that  knowledge.  Margaret,  dare  I  ask  you  to  go  on  be- 
lieving? Dare  I  suggest  that  the  greatest  test  of  a  wom- 
an's love  for  a  man  is  her  profound  belief  in  him  until,  from 
his  own  lips,  not  from  his  actions,  she  learns  the  truth? 

"ROBERT." 


If  Margaret  could  have  seen  Robert  MacWhinnie 
writing  that  letter,  or  overheard  what  followed  when 


TEARS  BEHIND  THE  SMILES  87 

Jean  came  to  interrogate  him  on  it,  she  might  have 
been  kinder  in  her  reply.  .  .  . 

The  ship  had  dropped  anchor  within  Colombo  Har- 
bor at  sunrise.  At  nine  o'clock  Jean,  dressed  in  white 
and  reveling  in  the  wonders  of  the  most  beautiful 
garden  in  the  world,  came  to  him  while  he  was  on 
deck,  with  a  proposal  that  they  should  go  ashore.  For 
the  first  time  since  they  left  England  he  refused  her 
request;  but,  rather  than  that  she  should  be  disap- 
pointed, he  arranged  for  her  to  join  a  party  of  passen- 
gers; and  as  she  went  over  the  side,  he  told  her  to 
enjoy  herself  to  the  full,  and  that  by  the  time  she  re- 
turned he  would  have  finished  all  his  correspondence, 
and  if  there  were  time  they  would  dine  that  evening 
at  the  Galle  Face  Hotel. 

"So  don't  exhaust  all  your  interest  in  Colombo, 
Jean,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "The  real  beauties  of  this 
island  are  never  apparent  until  nightfall.  Wait  till 
you  see  the  moon  hanging  over  the  town  like  a  silver 
lantern,  and  the  stars  so  clear  and  near  to  you  that 
you  feel  you  want  to  reach  up  and  steal  them  from 
their  setting.  I  have  already  promised  the  first  officer 
to  go  ashore  with  him  when  the  cargo  is  finished  with 
and  the  hatches  closed.  We'll  have  a  ricksha'  ride  by 
moonlight,  and  we'll  select  the  bungalow  we  mean  to 
settle  in  when  all  the  work  is  finished,  and  we  can 
bring  the  family  out.  So,  off  you  go,  and  don't  worry 
about  me.  There  are  piles  and  piles  of  letters  to  be 
written,  and  the  homeward-bound  mail  boat  will  be  in 
to-morrow,  just  before  we  sail." 

And,  as  the  launch  blustered  its  way  across  the 
water  to  the  landing-stage,  Robert  went  down  below, 


88  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

and  commenced  the  hardest  task  he  had  yet  under- 
taken. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  he  heard  Jean's 
voice  calling  to  him  from  the  alleyway  outside  the 
cabin.  She  had  returned,  hot  and  flushed  and  full  of 
the  wonders  of  the  island. 

"Robert,  man,  are  you  not  finished  yet  ?  Here's  the 
purser  asking  for  letters.  They  must  go  ashore  to- 
night." 

"Coming,  Jean!"  he  called  back.  "My  letters  will 
be  posted,  even  if  I  have  to  swim  ashore."  He  closed 
down  his  letter,  gathered  up  the  few  others  of  a  busi- 
ness nature  that  lay  on  his  table,  and  hurried  out.  Jean 
wanted  to  take  them  to  the  agent  herself,  but  he  clung 
to  them  with  suspicious  tightness.  The  letters  were 
handed  over  to  the  agent.  The  launch  whistled  her 
"Good  night"  to  the  ship,  and  with  the  sigh  of  one 
who  feels  that  the  greatest  labor  of  his  life  is  con- 
cluded, Robert  slipped  his  arm  round  Jean's  waist,  and 
they  went  for'ard  to  watch  the  swift  coming  of  night 
and  listen  to  the  crooning  of  the  island,  quarter  of  a 
mile  away.  They  had  an  hour  in  which  to  talk  and 
dream,  before  it  would  be  necessary  to  dress  for  their 
visit  to  the  hotel. 

Jean,  who  had  been  very  reserved  since  leaving  Eng- 
land, suddenly  rested  her  hand  on  his.  Darkness  had 
come  with  tropical  swiftness,  so  that  he  could  not 
clearly  distinguish  her  face ;  but  the  throb  in  her  voice 
told  him  how  deeply  she  had  been  thinking,  and  how 
feigned  had  been  her  joy  throughout  the  day. 

"You  wrote  some  very  long  letters,  Robert,"  she 
whispered. 


TEARS  BEHIND  THE  SMILES  89 

"Not  very  long,  Jean ;  but  a  spanner  is  more  famil- 
iar to  my  fingers  than  a  pen." 

"I  knew  you  were  going  to  write  a  lot  of  letters." 

"How  did  you  know  that?" 

"Because  you've  been  writing  them  ever  since  you 
left  home — writing  them  in  your  mind.  I've  seen 
your  lips  moving,  even  when  you  have  been  lying  back 
in  a  deck  chair  pretending  to  be  asleep." 

"Jean,  woman,  you're  suffering  from  the  effects  of 
the  tropical  night!  That  sky,  and  the  music  of  that 
sea,  and  the  aroma  of  spices  would  turn  a  dictionary 
into  a  romance." 

"And  you're  an  awfully  good  actor,  Robert.  To 
see  you  lying  there  with  your  eyes  half  closed,  anyone 
would  think  that  your  mind  was  at  peace  with  the 
world." 

"Well,  isn't  it  ?  Shouldn't  it  be  at  peace  ?  Haven't 
I  every  reason  to  be  happy  ?" 

"Robert,  dear,  don't  let  me  think  that  you  have  so 
poor  an  opinion  of  me.  You're  not  saying  to  yourself, 
'She's  happy  because  she  believes  me  to  be  happy?' 
You're  not  thinking  that  because  I  smile  and  run  about 
the  decks  all  day,  and  talk  and  make  myself  agreeable 
to  the  other  passengers — you're  not  thinking  that  I'm 
putting  a  mean  price  on  what  you've  done  for  me  ?" 

"My  dear  Jean,  I've  done  for  you  only  what  any 
brother  would  do  for  his  sister." 

"Ah,  no,  Robert!  You've  done  something  so  big 
that  I  can't  yet  estimate  it.  I  have  been  wondering  if 
I  shall  ever  estimate  it  rightly.  .  .  .  Have  you  written 
to  Margaret?" 

"Naturally." 


90  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"And  not  so  naturally,  either,  Robert.  I  know  that 
you've  been  trying  to  write  to  her  every  minute  of  the 
weeks  we've  been  away." 

"I  told  you  I'm  not  good  at  writing." 

"No,  and  you're  not  good  at  forgetting,  either." 

"I'm  afraid  you  are,  Jean,  because  I  told  you  dis- 
tinctly that  it  was  Margaret's  wish  that  I  should  go 
back  to  the  Far  East." 

"You  didn't  tell  me  that  you'd  seen  her." 

"Jean,  you've  a  very  bad  memory.  I  told  you  that 
I  was  going  down  to  Jarrowside." 

"But  did  you  go,  Robert?" 

"Why  should  you  worry  your  head  about  it  ?" 

"I'll  tell  you  why,  Robert.  It's  because  I've  been 
wondering  lately  how  much  a  sister  has  a  right  to  ex- 
pect from  a  brother." 

"Jean,  didn't  you  promise  me,  a  few  minutes  after 
we  cast  off  at  Tilbury,  that  not  until  I  broached  the 
subject  should  it  be  mentioned  again?" 

She  lay  back  on  the  chair,  and  said,  very  slowly,  but 
with  great  determination: 

"I,  myself,  shall  write  to  Margaret." 

Instantly  he  gripped  her  wrist. 

"That  will  be  a  poor  reward  for  anything  I  may 
have  done,"  he  said.  "I  don't  wish  you  to  write  to 
her.  Margaret  and  I  thoroughly  understand  each 
other.  Now  promise  me  again  that  you  will  do  no 
such  thing." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  the  light  of  the 
moon  showed  him  the  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"It's  a  simple  promise  to  make,  Jean,"  he  urged 
gently. 


TEARS  BEHIND  THE  SMILES  91 

"You  loved  Margaret,  Robert?" 

"I  love  her  now." 

"You'll  never  love  another  woman  as  you  love  her?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so." 

"And  there's  only  one  thing  you  love  more  than 
life." 

He  looked  the  question. 

"I  mean  your  honor,  Robert ;  the  honor  of  the  Mac- 
Whinnies." 

He  did  not  answer,  and  she  took  his  silence  for  an 
affirmative.  With  the  tears  streaming  down  her 
cheeks,  she  said  brokenly : 

"I  understand,  Robert.  That  is  why  you're  taking 
me  away." 

And  Robert  MacWhinnie  said  to  himself :  "So  long 
as  she  understands  that,  she  will  not  attempt  to  write 
to  anyone  at  home." 

The  quartermaster  came  along  the  deck. 

"Mr.  Tyson's  compliments,  sir,  and  he  will  be  ready 
to  go  ashore  within  half  an  hour." 

"My  compliments  to  Mr.  Tyson,"  said  Robert  firm- 
ly. "We  shall  be  ready.  Come,  Jean." 


CHAPTER   XI 

TEMPERAMENT 

MARGARET   DRENDER'S  reply  to  Robert's 
letter  reached  him  a  month  after  he  landed 
at  Kobe.     It  was  very  short,  and  contained 
no  more  and  no  less  than  he  expected.     It  was  ad- 
dressed to  him  at  the  shipping  agent's  office,  and  he 
carried  it  unopened  in  his  pocket  for  an  hour  before  he 
had  the  courage  to  break  the  seal. 

"No  one"  [she  wrote]  "could  doubt  the  sincerity  of  your 
letter.  But  if  you  loved  me  as  you  say  you  did,  and  do, 
is  there  proof  of  that  love  in  your  reluctance  to  take  me 
into  your  confidence?  If  I  could  not  have  helped  you  in 
your  difficulty,  whatever  it  is,  at  least  I  could  not  have  made 
it  greater.  You  ask  me  to  believe  in  you  until  I  have 
learned  the  truth  from  your  own  lips.  I  will ;  because, 
whatever  happens  now,  it  cannot  make  any  difference.  But, 
Robert,  you  are  asking  a  great  deal  of  a  woman.  When 
you  wrote  your  letter,  had  you  in  your  mind  the  fear  that 
this  separation  was  to  be  for  all  time?  Had  you  in  your 
mind  the  belief  that  as  the  years  crept  in  between,  the  pain 
would  be  forgotten — the  pain,  not  only  of  the  heart,  but  of 
the  mind,  the  pain  of  humbled  pride?  If  that  was  your  idea, 
I  will  for  a  moment  put  my  modesty  aside,  and  ask  you  to 
remember  that  I  was  not  a  girl  when  your  letter  came." 

By  this  time  Jean's  sorrow  had  been  partially  for- 
gotten in  the  joyous  contemplation  of  her  new  sur- 
roundings. While  at  Nagasaki  Robert  had  been  able 

92 


TEMPERAMENT  93 

to  arrange  for  the  tenancy  of  a  bungalow  on  the  east- 
ern fringe  of  Kobe,  and  under  the  brow  of  the  hill 
that  looks  across  the  harbor;  so  that  when  they 
reached  the  port  there  was  no  necessity  to  stay  at  a 
hotel  and  court  the  inquisitiveness  of  any  Europeans 
who  might  be  staying  there.  He  put  it  in  another  way 
when  speaking  to  her  about  it,  fearing  to  awaken  sad- 
nesses. It  was  with  the  delighted  laughter  of  a  child 
that  she  went  from  room  to  room.  It  was  the  doll's 
house  of  her  girlhood  dreams — the  house  in  which  the 
dolls  were  actually  alive.  The  quaint  little  charcoal 
stove,  the  hibachi,  the  little  shrine  in  the  corner,  the 
lily-white  rice  mats,  and,  above  all,  the  doll,  O  Yucha 
San,  who  had  served  the  previous  tenant  two  years, 
and  had  eagerly  awaited  the  arrival  of  the  MacWhin- 
nies  from  Nagasaki.  Jean  surveyed  the  little  kneeling 
figure  in  sheer  delight,  and  begged  Robert  to  keep 
talking  to  the  girl  so  that  she  might  listen  to  her 
tongue.  In  the  compound  there  was  the  most  fairy- 
like  of  gold-fish  ponds,  fringed  by  dwarf  plum  trees 
and  ferns.  From  the  steps  of  the  veranda  a  perfect 
panorama  of  sea  and  land  spread  itself  out;  and  of 
an  evening,  when  the  masthead  lights  of  incoming 
ships  twinkled  like  so  many  stars — when  the  scream 
and  hum  of  the  cicada  deepened  the  romance  of  the 
atmosphere,  Jean  felt  that  the  other  world  had  passed 
away  and  life  was  beginning  anew. 

Jean  was  in  the  compound  behind  the  bungalow 
when  Robert  returned  from  the  shipping  office  with 
Margaret's  letter  in  his  pocket.  The  little  Japanese 
maid,  who  had  been  sitting  with  her  and  endeavoring 
to  teach  her  the  rudiments  of  the  native  language, 


94  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

shuffled  backward  out  of  hearing  as  he  came  on  to  the 
veranda  and  called  to  his  sister.  He  had  not  told  her 
why  he  went  to  the  shipping  office,  but  she  shrewdly 
guessed  at  the  nature  of  his  errand.  And  narrowly 
she  scrutinized  his  open  face  for  any  sign  of  depres- 
sion. But  it  was  in  a  cheery  voice  that  he  called  to 
her,  and  as  he  flung  his  topee  on  the  rice-matted  floor 
he  signaled  to  her  to  come  up  from  the  garden  and 
listen  to  the  news  he  had  for  her. 

"Jean,  girl,  I'm  going  to  leave  you  to  yourself  for 
three  or  four  days.  Any  objection?" 

She  shook  her  head ;  but  there  was  an  anxious  look 
on  her  face. 

"There  you  are,"  he  said,  almost  boisterously,  as  he 
flung  a  letter  toward  her.  "Read  it,  if  you  can." 

It  was  in  Japanese,  and  gravely  she  handed  it  back. 

"Come,"  he  laughed,  "for  what  am  I  paying  O 
Yucha  San  ten  yen  a  month,  if  you  haven't  yet  mas- 
tered the  simplest  language  in  the  world  ?" 

"Who  interpreted  it  for  you,  Robert?" 

"Never  mind,"  he  laughed.  "I  have  a  translation 
here.  I'm  going  down  to  Tokio  to  see  one  of  the  gov- 
ernment officials,  and  I  shall  be  away  no  more  than 
four  days  at  the  most.  I  shall  then  know  what  I  am 
going  to  do  during  the  next  six  months  at  least.  From 
what  I  have  been  able  to  gather,  these  people  are  in- 
tent on  pushing  the  railway  to  the  northwest  of  the 
island  as  fast  as  possible,  and  the  amusing  part  of  it 
is  that  they  have  no  reason  for  it,  or,  rather,  none  that 
they  care  to  divulge,  even  to  Robert  MacWhinnie. 
Oh,  they're  an  amazing  people,  but  not  nearly  so  clever 


TEMPERAMENT 95 

as  they  imagine  themselves  to  be !  Still,  that's  not  our 
concern,  is  it,  Jean?" 

"No,  Robert."  She  was  watching  him  with  set  eyes. 
What  he  had  already  said  hadn't  interested  her  in  the 
slightest.  She  was  waiting  for  something  which  she 
knew  he  would  not  tell  her. 

"Our  concern  is  to  give  them  brains  for  their 
money.  Isn't  that  it,  Jean?  And  when  we've  sold 
enough  of  the  commodity,  back  we  go.  I'm  still  keen 
on  Colombo.  It's  time  the  MacWhinnies  took  up  their 
estate  there.  You'll  be  all  right,  Jean?  I'll  arrange 
with  O  Yucha  San  to  look  after  you,  and  I've  already 
seen  the  serjeant  de  ville,  as  my  old  acquaintance 
Hiraki  likes  to  call  himself.  You  need  have  no  fear, 
for  the  burglars  in  this  country  are  very  discriminat- 
ing. They  seldom  get  farther  than  the  servants'  quar- 
ters." 

"When  are  you  going,  Robert  ?" 

"To-night.  It's  a  long  train  journey — thirty-six 
hours  and  more,  but  the  sooner  I  start,  the  sooner  it 
will  be  finished.  Now,  help  me  to  pack." 

She  obeyed  like  any  well-trained  housekeeper,  not 
forgetting  a  single  article  her  mother  would  have 
thought  of  had  she  been  sending  him  away.  And  she 
went  to  the  station  with  him,  and  laughed  and  jested 
while  she  stood  with  him  awaiting  the  departure  of 
the  train.  She  promised  him  that  before  he  saw  her 
again  she  would  know  as  much  about  the  language  as 
he  could  wish  her  to  know,  and  she  kissed  him  with 
all  the  love  of  a  sister,  assuring  him  that  he  need  have 
no  anxiety  about  her  while  he  was  away;  and  her 
"Sayonara"  rang  with  hope  and  happiness. 


96  THE  HOXOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

He  returned  to  Kobe  five  days  later,  arriving  late 
at  night  He  had  telegraphed  to  Jean  the  time  of  his 
arrival,  and,  although  he  did  not  expect  her  to  be 
awaiting  him  at  the  station,  he  was  greatly  surprised 
to  find  the  bungalow  in  complete  darkness.  He  dis- 
missed his  jinrickisha  boy,  and  went  quickly  up  the 
veranda  steps.  The  sliding  door  was  unlocked.  As 
he  set  his  foot  across  the  threshold,  he  called  out  in  a 
nervous  voice:  "Jean,  where  are  you?" 

He  fancied  that  he  heard  a  movement  in  their  little 
sitting  room,  and  he  turned  quickly  and  walked  in, 
striking  a  vesta  as  he  went. 

Jean  was  there — seated  at  the  table — and  before 
the  name  of  the  match  died  out,  he  marked  the  hollow- 
ness  of  her  cheeks,  the  haggard,  weary  look  in  her 
eyes. 

"Jean,  light  the  lantern !"  he  cried,  trying  to  appear 
calm. 

But  it  was  he,  himself,  who  lit  it.  Then,  as  he 
turned  again  in  her  direction,  the  deep  red  light  of  the 
paper  lantern  resting  on  her  face,  he  held  up  his  hands 
in  cilcinn. 

"What  has  happened,  Jean?  Why  don't  you 
speak?9 

She  had  put  on  a  grav  silk  kimono ;  the  folds  of  her 
hair  had  not  been  unfastened,  but  it  was  all  loose,  as 
though  in  pain  she  had  continually  brushed  it  back 
with  her  hands. 

"Why  are  you  sitting  here  in  the  darkness?"  He 
approached  her  chair,  holding  out  a  hand  imploringly. 
"Jean,  have  you  gone  out  of  your  mind  ?  Why  do  you 
$it  there  staring  at  me  in  that  manner?  I  ask  you,  why 


TEMPERAMENT  97 

are  you  sitting  here  in  the  darkness,  and  what  has  hap- 
pened ?" 

And  before  she  could  answer  he  understood.  The 
agitation  of  his  mind  passed.  He  became  calm,  ter- 
ribly calm,  in  an  instant. 

"Jean,  my  bonnie  girl,"  he  said  soothingly,  and 
leaned  over  the  table  toward  her,  "give  it  to  me." 

She  raised  her  right  hand,  and  very  gently  he  took 
the  pistol  from  it. 

"Where  did  you  get  this — this  toy  from?" 

"O  Yucha  San." 

"Now,  show  me  what  you  have  in  the  other  hand." 
And  mechanically  she  brought  that  into  the  light,  and 
showed  him  the  crumpled  note  paper.  He  took  it 
from  her.  It  was  Margaret  Drender's  letter,  which 
had  been  addressed  to  the  shipping  office. 

"The  servants  are  out,  I  suppose?"  he  said. 

She  moved  her  head  very  slightly. 

"You  sent  them  away  for  the  night." 

He  went  across  the  floor,  lit  a  second  lantern,  and 
brought  it  near  the  table.  Then  he  sat  down,  and, 
placing  his  elbows  on  the  table,  rested  his  chin  in  his 
hands,  looking  at  her  intently  the  while. 

"I  thought  you  were  much  stronger  than  that, 
Jean,"  he  said  sadly.  "I  thought  your  love  for  me 
was  greater.  Did  you  try  to  think  what  my  feelings 
would  be,  had — 'had  anything  happened?  .  .  .  This 
letter — where  did  you  find  it?  In  my  pocket,  I  sup- 
pose, when  you  came  to  brush  my  clothes  ?  You  must 
have  done  that  the  morning  after  I  left.  How  long 
have  you  been  sitting  there  making  up  your  mind  what 
to  do?" 


98  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Since  yesterday  morning,  Robert." 

"You've  been  here  alone  since  yesterday  morning? 
And  in  all  that  time  you  never  thought  of  me  and  my 
feelings  ?" 

"It's  because  you  haven't  been  out  of  my  mind  since 
yesterday  morning." 

"Did  you  really  mean  to  take  your  life  ?" 

"Why  should  I  rob  you  of  yours  ?" 

"Who  told  you  that  you'd  robbed  me  of  mine  ?" 

"Of  your  happiness,  your  hopes." 

"Have  I  ever  shown  you  that  I  was  unhappy  ?  Have 
I  ever  said  anything  that  would  lead  you  to  believe 
that  my  hopes  were  not  even  greater  now  than  ever 
they  were?" 

"It  is  because  you  haven't  said  anything  that  I 
meant  to  do  it.  It's  because  I  know  that  all  this  time 
you've  been  acting,  you've  been  sacrificing  yourself. 
It  was  I  who  sinned,  not  you,  Robert.  Why  should 
you  pay  the  penalty?" 

"Who  told  you  that  you'd  sinned  ?" 

"Else,  why  did  you  bring  me  away?" 

"To  be  my  housekeeper;  to  make  this  exile — for  it 
is  exile — less  lonely.  There  wTas  no  one  in  the  world 
whom  I  would  have  preferred  to  you." 

"You're  saying  that  because " 

"Because  what,  Jean  ?" 

"Because  you're  my  brother — that's  all.  I  don't 
believe  that  you,  yourself,  realize  what  you've  given 
up  for  me." 

"It  was  my  duty,  Jean." 

"Rob,  don't  say  that!" 


TEMPERAMENT 99 

"No,  not  my  duty.  It  was  because  of  the  love  I 
have  for  you." 

"No  one  else — the  others  wouldn't  have  done  it." 

"You  never  loved  the  others  as  you  loved  me.  Jean, 
do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you've  forgotten  the  time 
when  we  were  boy  and  girl  ?  Have  you  forgotten  that 
Saturday  afternoon,  in  Bally houstie,  when  Sandy  Mac- 
Cormick  made  my  nose  bleed,  and  you  'paid'  him  with 
your  own  bare  hands?  Have  you  forgotten  the  time 
when  we  were  lost  together,  on  the  Haddington 
moors?" — he  slipped  naturally  into  the  accent  of  his 
youth — "when  we  had  to  stay  out  a'  the  nicht,  and 
ye  took  off  your  wee  bit  petticoat  and  wrapped  it 
around  me?  Have  ye  forgotten  how  we  used  to  read 
together,  and  you  drew  'Robert  MacWhinnie  as  a 
boy,  Robert  MacWhinnie  as  a  man,  and  Robert  Mac- 
Whinnie as  a  millionaire'?  Oh,  Jean,  have  you  for- 
gotten all  that?  Because  not  a  single  incident  of  those 
days  has  left  my  memory.  Why,  when  I  was  out 
here  before,  sitting  alone  in  a  place  just  like  this,  I 
used  to  talk  to  you — to  your  memory.  And  you  were 
ready  to  do  this — this  thing  to-night !" 

She  had  dropped  her  head  on  her  arm,  and  her  sobs 
shook  the  table.  He  left  his  chair  and  went  over  to 
her,  placing  his  arm  around  her  neck  and  raising  her 
head  so  that  he  could  press  cheek  against  cheek. 

"Jean,  my  bonnie  lass,"  he  whispered  tenderly,  "I 
know  all  that  you're  suffering,  but  I  want  you  to  be- 
lieve that  there  are  bright  days  ahead.  You've  robbed 
me  of  nothing.  I  still  have  my  hopes  and  ambitions, 
and  it's  work  that  I  want,  Jean.  I  want  to  be  big  and 
important — ay!  as  important  as  old  Baillie  MacGrath 


100  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

of  Ballyhoustie,  and  ye  mind  how  important  he  was! 
Jean,  it's  just  grand  to  realize  that  I  have  so  fine  a 
sister !  I  should  never  have  done  the  work  that  I  have 
done  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you,  and  I  shouldn't  attempt 
what  I'm  going  to  attempt  in  the  future,  if  you  were 
not  here  with  me." 

"It's  the  shame,  Robert,  the  shame." 

And  he  could  tell  by  the  depth  of  her  voice  how 
acute  was  the  mental  pain. 

"I've  thought  of  all  that,"  he  said  softly,  hoping  to 
pacify  her. 

"And  it's  not  right  that  my  shame  should  be  visited 
on  you." 

"Would  it  have  helped,  if  I  had  arrived  too  late  to- 
night? Jean,  you  must  never  again  allow  your  mind 
to  get  into  this  state.  The  shame  that  you  speak  of  is 
one  that — one  that  your  Maker  would  understand. 
The  other  that  you  contemplated  is  one  that  you 
couldn't  expect  Him  to  forgive." 

"But  why  are  you  doing  this  for  me?  Why  should 
you  do  it  ?" 

"For  only  one  reason :  You're  my  sister." 

She  hesitated,  and,  covering  her  eyes  again,  said 
plaintively :  "You're  not  doing  it,  Robert,  because  of 
the  disgrace  to  you  if  it  were  known  at  home?" 

"No,"  he  said,  very  firmly. 

"Then,  tell  me,  Robert,  what  is  your  plan?  What 
have  you  in  your  mind?" 

"At  present,  nothing;  although  the  news  I  was 
bringing  you  was  helping  me  to  think.  We're  leaving 
Kobe  at  once.  I'm  going  up  to  Sendai,  to  take  charge 
of  a  couple  of  hundred  native  engineers — bridge- 


TEMPERAMENT 101 

building.  You  and  I  are  going,  Jean.  Probably  you'll 
be  the  only  white  woman  there.  It  will  be  lonely  for 
you." 

"It  couldn't  be  lonely,  Robert,  with  you." 

"That's  the  way  to  look  at  it.  We  shall  be  up  there 
probably  some  months.  The  government  are  doing 
everything  they  can  for  our  comfort." 

"Our  comfort,  Robert?" 

"They  understand  that  my  sister  is  with  me.  To- 
morrow we  shall  see  about  the  packing  up."  He  re- 
peated the  word  "to-morrow,"  paused,  and  looked  at 
her.  "What  a  to-morrow  it  would  have  been  for  me, 
Jean,  if " 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  and  placed  her  arms  around 
his  neck. 

"Robert,"  she  whispered,  "will  you  kiss  me?" 

He  held  her  tightly  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her 
brow  again  and  again. 

"I  shall  always  think  of — to-morrow,"  she  said. 
"Robert,  you've  shamed  me." 

"No,  not  shamed  you,  Jean,"  he  answered.  "I've 
only  tried  to  open  your  eyes,  for  if  there's  work  out 
here  for  me  to  do,  there's  work  for  you." 

"God  give  me  work!"  she  said,  and  hid  her  face 
against  his  breast. 

In  a  little  while,  and  when  her  sobs  had  ceased,  he 
led  her  to  her  room,  and  in  the  absence  of  the  servants 
unrolled  her  rice-mat.  He  kissed  her  good  night,  and 
went  back  to  the  sitting  room.  He  filled  his  pipe,  lit  it, 
turned  out  the  lanterns,  and  went  onto  the  veranda. 

Dawn  was  breaking,  and,  as  he  watched,  a  full- 
rigged  ship  sailed  from  beyond  the  rim  of  the  ocean 


102  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

full  into  the  crimson  light  of  the  breaking  day — sailed 
with  white  wings  stretched  full  out  to  the  welcome 
wind,  like  a  great  bird  of  hope,  nearing  the  long- 
sought  haven. 


CHAPTER   XII 

PAINTED   HOURS 

THAT  scene  in  the  bungalow  at  Kobe  was  never 
again  referred  to  by  Robert,  although  on  many 
occasions  Jean  sought  to  plumb  the  depths  of 
his  mind.  But  it  was  characteristic  of  him  that,  hav- 
ing once  set  a  seal  on  something  which  he  intended  to 
be  closed,  nothing  could  induce  him  to  break  it.  None 
could  have  doubted  the  intensity  of  his  grief  on  that 
night,  but  once  the  word  of  contrition  had  been  spo- 
ken, once  the  promise  had  been  given  that  never  again 
would  her  mind  turn  in  that  direction,  he  freed  him- 
self of  it  all,  and  just  as  the  sun  breaks  through  the 
darkness  of  night,  so  his  ambition  and  natural  bright- 
ness broke  through  the  darkness  of  what  had  almost 
been  a  tragedy.  His  strength  of  mind  and  unfailing 
optimism  was  infectious,  and  long  before  Sendai 
was  reached  Jean  had  recalled  some  of  the  lightness  of 
her  girlhood  days.  The  natural  wonders  of  the  coun- 
try through  which  they  traveled  stirred  her  to  out- 
bursts of  admiration,  and,  although  it  was  all  very  old 
and  familiar  to  Robert,  he  derived  a  new  joy  from 
looking  at  it  through  her  eyes.  Always  he  was  prom- 
ising her  that  it  was  nothing  to  what  she  should  see. 
The  evenings  she  loved  the  best,  when  the  orange  and 

103 


104  THE  HOXOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

amber  sunsets  made  appeal  to  all  that  was  artistic  in 
her. 

On  the  outskirts  of  Sendai,  a  bungalow  had  been 
placed  at  their  disposal,  and  almost  immediately  they 
settled  down  to  what  Robert  declared  was  to  be  the 
work  of  his  lifetime.  Those  early  days  in  Sendai 
were  full  of  promise,  and  Jean,  as  if  in  atonement  for 
the  pain  she  had  caused  him  at  Kobe,  threw  her  whole 
heart  into  the  duties  of  housekeeper.  Often  he  won- 
dered aloud  how  he  had  managed  without  her,  or  how 
he  could  hope  to  manage  in  the  future  if  she  were  not 
with  him.  She  loved  the  new  country  to  which  he  had 
brought  her,  and  learned  to  assimilate  customs  in 
weeks  where  he  had  floundered  in  years. 

"Never  be  able  to  manage  without  you,  Jean,"  he 
would  murmur,  as  she  flitted  about  the  veranda,  ar- 
ranging his  papers,  or  gathering  together  his  models. 

"But  I  shall  always  be  with  you,  Robert,"  she  would 
say,  and  his  reply,  half  in  jest,  never  varied :  "It's  all 
a  matter  for  yourself,  Jean." 

Oh,  they  were  beautiful  days  of  dreams  and  newly 
planted  hopes.  It  may  be  that,  in  the  minds  of  those 
who  look  upon  these  two  from  afar,  there  is  a  halting 
fear  that  in  Jean's  nature  there  was  a  seed  of  selfish- 
ness that  developed  as  the  days  wore  on.  But  who 
shall  blame  her?  Perhaps,  if  Robert  had  hinted  at 
the  presence  of  such  a  seed,  she  would  have  shown  by 
her  next  action  that  she,  herself,  had  been  unaware  of 
it ;  but  in  everything  that  he  said  and  did  there  was  the 
warmth  of  a  love  that  neither  could  estimate. 

Wonderful  days  and  wonderful  nights,  when  all 
the  romance  of  an  eastern  sky  and  climate  crept  into 


PAINTED  HOURS 105 

their  very  souls,  all  the  picturesqueness  of  the  most 
picturesque  country  in  the  world  making  appeal  to 
their  sense  of  the  beautiful.  For  reasons  which  he 
plausibly  explained  to  her,  he  made  no  attempt  to  cul- 
tivate the  acquaintance  of  the  few  Europeans  engaged 
in  business  in  Sendai.  His  work  was  of  such  a  char- 
acter that  throughout  the  day  it  was  essential  that  he 
should  concentrate  the  whole  of  his  thoughts  upon  it, 
and  in  the  evening  he  was  too  tired,  physically  and 
mentally,  to  do  more  than  rest  on  a  rattan  chair  and 
listen  to  Jean  as  she  read,  or  sang,  or  wrote  letters 
aloud — a  habit  of  hers.  Jean  never  allowed  a  mail  to 
leave  without  a  letter  from  her  to  the  people  at  home, 
and  sometimes,  when  she  paused  in  the  writing  of  one, 
and  the  tears  gushed  to  her  eyes,  he  would  take  the 
pen  from  her  fingers  and  complete  the  task  himself. 

The  railway  was  being  constructed  with  all  pos- 
sible haste,  and  under  him  Robert  had  over  two  hun- 
dred natives.  The  route  kept  to  the  coastline  far  be- 
yond Sendai,  and  the  bridge-building  that  had  to  be 
undertaken  demanded  the  most  careful  of  workman- 
ship. When  Jean  and  Robert  arrived  at  Sendai,  they 
found  the  work  in  charge  of  a  European  engineer,  a 
Scot  like  themselves.  He  had  taken  over  the  duties 
temporarily,  and  was  awaiting  Robert  with  impatience. 
A  little,  weazened  man  of  sixty,  he  welcomed  the 
brother  and  sister  with  the  enthusiasm  that  he  would 
have  shown  had  he  heard  the  skirl  of  the  bagpipes, 
and  both  of  them  could  well  understand  the  flooded 
eyes  and  the  peculiar  little  breaks  in  his  voice  when 
he  told  them  that  they  were  the  first  Scots  he  had  met 
in  ten  years.  His  name  was  MacConnachie,  and  he 


106  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

came  from  Kilmarnock.  He  had  been  in  the  East 
nearly  thirty  years,  and  yet  there  wasn't  a  family  in 
the  town  of  Kilmarnock  whose  name  he  didn't  remem- 
ber. Jean  asked  him  if  he  were  going  home,  he  hav- 
ing told  her  that  he  had  made  as  much  as  he  was 
likely  to  need.  He  shook  his  head,  and  with  an  accent 
so  broad  and  homelike  that  it  brought  a  sob  into  Jean's 
throat,  he  said  he  feared  that  long  association  with  the 
East  had  made  him  a  foreigner  to  his  own  people.  He 
was  returning  to»  Nagasaki,  where  he  intended  to  take 
over  the  license  of  a  tea  garden.  There,  he  said,  he 
would  end  his  days,  watching  the  ships  come  in,  watch- 
ing the  "Blue  Peter"  go  up,  "and  sighin'  like  a  wee 
bit  lassie." 

During  the  few  days  that  he  remained  before  relin- 
quishing everything  to  Robert,  MacConnachie  spent  a 
great  deal  of  time  in  the  MacWhinnie  bungalow ;  and 
he  helped  more  than  anyone  else  to  give  Jean  an  in- 
sight into  the  native  mind  which  was  to  strengthen  her 
in  the  days  to  come  against  the  fears  and  forebodings 
which  were  natural  in  her. 

"For  five  years,"  MacConnachie  said,  "I  was  at 
wor-rk  away  up  in  Canton.  I  like  the  Chinamen  mair 
than  I  like  these  people ;  but  I  found  that  while  I  could 
manage  a  hundred  Chinks  wi'  a  full-hearted  flow  of 
Glasgie-Irish  an'  a  monkey-wrench,  I  could  do  any- 
thing wi'  these  people  so  long  as  I  made  them  believe 
that  I  had  mair  brains  than  themsel's." 

Robert,  after  the  departure  of  MacConnachie,  was 
the  only  European  engaged  on  the  work  of  construc- 
tion, but  from  the  Government  engineering  shops  at 
Kure  had  been  sent  a  number  of  young  men  educated 


PAINTED  HOURS 107 

in  England  and  Germany.  They  worked  under  him 
as  his  immediate  subordinates,  and,  although,  as  he 
told  Jean  with  a  smile,  they  were  there  for  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  profiting  from  his  knowledge  as  an 
engineer,  both  he  and  she  found  their  companionship 
a  comfort  in  the  long  weeks  when  rain  and  frequent 
earthquakes  interfered  with  the  progress  of  the  rail- 
way work.  The  principal  of  these  young  men  of  the 
New  Japan  was  Taro  Yuchi,  who,  by  reason  of  his 
perfect  command  of  English  and  his  poetic  fancies, 
seemed  to  become  almost  indispensable  to  the  Mac- 
Whinnie  household.  For  Robert  he  had  a  respect  that 
amounted  almost  to  reverence ;  Jean  might  have  been 
an  empress,  and  her  accent,  given  free  rein  on  occa- 
sions, the  most  wonderful  music  that  had  ever  broken 
on  his  ears.  In  those  days,  when  the  demands  of  the 
railway  work  occupied  most  of  his  time  and  attention, 
Robert  was  very  grateful  for  the  friendship  of  Taro 
Yuchi  and  the  little  circle  of  subordinates  who  gath- 
ered at  his  bungalow  of  an  evening. 

Robert's  one  great  fear  was  now  for  Jean.  While 
he  never  gave  any  sign  of  allowing  his  thoughts  to 
dwell  on  that  night  in  Kobe,  while  he  was  always 
bright  and  cheerful  in  her  presence,  yet  was  he  tor- 
tured by  thoughts  of  the  future.  There  were  days  to 
come  when  her  courage  would  be  tested  with  greater 
severity.  He  hardly  dared  to  think  about  those  days, 
and  whenever  she  gave  him  the  impression  that  her 
own  mind  was  wandering  in  that  direction,  he  quickly 
evolved  some  topic  or  controversy  that  would  tend  to 
divert  her  thoughts.  It  was  very  seldom  that  her 
mood  aroused  those  fears  in  him.  It  was  as  though 


108  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

she  had  secretly  reproached  herself  for  the  lack  of 
gratitude  shown  at  Kobe,  and  had  determined  to  do 
her  best  to  brighten  the  voluntary  exile.  From  out  of 
the  past  she  might  have  recalled  the  joyous  tempera- 
ment which  had  made  her  so  beloved  of  him  in  the 
Ballyhoustie  days;  indeed,  she  appeared  to  have  made 
up  her  mind  to  show  him  how  great  was  her  apprecia- 
tion of  all  that  he  had  done  for  her,  and  to  make  his 
self-sacrifice  less  of  a  burden  to  him.  She  might  have 
had  no  thought  of  the  future ;  she  was  just  a  laughing 
Scottish  girl,  and  he  was  the  one  man  in  the  world 
that  mattered. 

The  work  of  constructing  the  railway  helped  to  keep 
Robert's  mind  from  thoughts  that  would  be  likely  to 
betray  his  feelings.  Although  he  had  laid  the  founda- 
tions of  success  during  his  three  years  in  the  country, 
there  was  a  reputation  to  maintain.  This  strip  of 
country  through  which  the  line  was  to  be  carried  pre- 
sented so  many  natural  difficulties  that  no  greater  test 
of  his  skill  as  an  engineer  could  have  been  imposed. 
Many  times  did  he  and  Taro  Yuchi,  the  second  in 
command,  sit  out  on  the  veranda  of  the  bungalow, 
wrestling  with  the  problems  before  them,  until  the 
stars  paled  and  the  drapings  of  the  morning  sun  were 
drawn  aside. 

In  addition  to  the  topographical  difficulties,  the  hu- 
man element  had  to  be  considered,  and  here  it  was 
that  Jean  discovered  in  herself  a  strength  that  was  to 
help  him  when  the  trouble  came.  The  number  of  men 
placed  at  Robert's  disposal  was  far  from  being  suffi- 
cient, and  the  authorities,  imbued  with  vast  ambitions, 
but  lacking  financial  resource,  trimmed  their  expendi- 


PAINTED  HOURS 109 

ture  with  laudable  economy  but  deplorable  tact.  The 
natives  engaged  on  the  work  of  construction  were 
miserably  paid,  unfair  advantage  being  taken  of  the 
new  spirit  of  patriotism  that  had  come  to  stir  the 
semi-moribund  life  of  the  nation.  The  community  of 
workers  was  housed  in  the  most  primitive  manner 
imaginable,  and,  although  something  like  organiza- 
tion was  attempted,  the  strain  on  Robert  MacWhin- 
nie's  courage  became  greater  as  the  weeks  went  by. 
There  were  swamps  to  be  crossed,  which  meant  great- 
er vigilance  on  the  part  of  the  two  or  three  med- 
ical students  sent  up  from  Tokio;  and  as  Robert  was 
compelled  to  superintend  the  energies  even  of  these 
auxiliaries,  he  had  little  time  for  rest.  During  the 
first  two  months,  there  was  a  great  deal  of  sickness  in 
the  camp,  and  it  was  here  that  Jean  found  a  new  field, 
a  new  niche  of  which  she  had  never  dreamed.  O 
Yucha  San,  her  little  Kobe  maid,  would  have  re- 
mained on  her  knees  for  days  in  admiration  and  awe 
could  she  have  marked  the  amazing  progress  which 
Jean  made  in  the  study  of  the  native  language.  More 
than  that,  she  had  entered  so  deeply  into  the  charac- 
ter of  the  people  that,  within  three  months,  she  un- 
derstood what  was  much  more  important  than  lan- 
guage— the  temperament  of  the  people  among  whom 
she  and  her  brother  had  come  to  live.  When  sickness 
fell  on  the  camp,  she  begged  Robert  to  allow  her  to 
interrogate  the  pathetically  incompetent  medical  staff, 
to  find  out  how  far  they  were  able  to  combat  the 
common  enemy,  and  to  aid  them  with  her  advice  in 
matters  of  segregation  and  nursing  generally.  Before 
the  dread  of  this  half-expected  handicap  had  left  Rob- 


110  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

ert's  mind  free  to  deal  with  the  main  work  before 
him,  the  outbreak  of  sickness  had  passed,  and  "O  Jean 
San"  had  been  raised  to  a  dazzlingly  white  throne  in 
the  primitive  minds  of  the  native  toilers. 

But  the  work  had  been  retarded,  and  Robert  made 
repeated  requests  to  the  authorities  for  additional  la- 
bor. The  response  was  excessive  politeness,  without 
a  refusal,  and  without  additional  labor.  The  official 
Japanese,  who  keeps  his  position  so  long  as  he  obeys 
orders  and  never  gives  affront,  has  an  indescribable 
faculty  for  making  a  pleader  feel  ashamed  of  his  own 
plea;  he  can  garnish  a  refusal  with  so  much  flowery 
language  and  delightful  politeness  that  the  "no"  be- 
comes more  desirable  than  a  "yes." 

Robert  pushed  on  bravely,  content  to  place  reliance 
on  the  patriotism  of  the  men  under  him.  He  was 
less  observant  than  Jean,  who  warned  him  on  in- 
numerable occasions  that  patriotism  can  stand  any  test 
save  that  of  actual  want.  "Robert,  man,"  she  would 
say  when  they  fell  to  discussing  this  aspect  of  the 
work,  "according  to  your  expense  sheets,  you're  paying 
these  men  an  average  of  fifty  sen  a  day — a  shilling — 
and  you  expect  them  to  drag  their  bones  through 
swamps  and  risk  all  the  dangers  of  a  treacherous  cli- 
mate for  that.  Dinna  fling  out  your  excuses  about 
patriotism,  because  patriotism  is  no  fattening  eno'  for 
them.  Patriotism  and  a  full  stomach  gae  togither." 

Jean  was  a  world  of  sunshine  in  herself  when  the 
clouds  threatened  Robert's  sky,  and,  perhaps,  he  was 
too  absorbed  in  the  work  before  him  to  pay  tribute  to 
the  greatness  of  her  spirit  in  those  Sendai  months. 
There  might  have  been  no  shadow  creeping  toward 


PAINTED  HOURS 111 

her;  she  gave  no  sign  of  anticipating  it.  He  never 
saw  a  tear  in  her  eyes  during  the  two  months  after 
leaving  Kobe  until  that  morning  when  he  came  back 
from  the  cutting  unexpectedly. 

And,  again,  it  was  a  letter — or,  rather,  many  letters 
— that  had  torn  the  mask  from  her  face.  Letters  from 
home!  Letters  to  Robert,  upon  whom  the  family 
leaned.  One  from  Mrs.  MacWhinnie : 

"You  must  be  getting  a  sight  of  money,  Rob,  and  it's 
grand  to  think  that  your  own  stand  first.  We  thank  you 
for  the  fifty  pounds.  John  Drender's  cashier  was  in  the 
bank  when  I  went  with  your  father  to  get  the  money,  and 
we  just  flashed  the  bit  papers  in  his  face.  Did  you  hear 
from  your  father  how  Drender  wanted  to  play  the  high  and 
mighty  because  you  had  brains  and  the  sense  to  keep  them 
in  the  family?  He'll  never  forgive  your  father  for  letting 
you  go  back  so  as  he  couldn't  pluck  you  any  more.  Was 
all  for  turning  your  father  and  Tammas  away  from  his 
works,  he  was,  but  your  father  soon  showed  him  what  was 
what.  Don't  say  anything  to  Jean  about  it;  she  has  had 
worry  enough,  and  we  hope  this  holiday  will  do  her  good. 
We  owe  a  deal  to  Jean,  Rob ;  I've  realized  that  sin  you  went 
away.  The  boys  are  awful  good  to  their  mother,  and  Tam- 
mas is  doing  that  splendid  with  the  speaking.  We  shall  all 
be  proud  of  the  lad  yet,  and  I  hear,  although  he  hasn't  said 
anything  to  his  mother,  yet,  that  a  fine  bit  lassie  has  her 
eye  on  him.  Jean'll  know  her — Maggie  Drummond;  her 
father  came  from  Glasgow  a  year  before  you  came  back 
from  abroad." 

And  there  was  a  letter  from  David,  thanking  Robert 
for  the  check  which  had  settled  his  "trouble"  nicely; 
and  a  bundle  of  crude  drawings  from  the  father,  who 
was  certain  that  he  had  invented  an  "eye-opener,"  and 
wondered  what  Robert  thought  about  the  traveling 


THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 


crane,  and  whether  he  felt  inclined  to  put  down  the 
money  for  the  models. 

Jean  had  come  on  the  letters  in  the  same  way  that 
she  had  found  the  Kobe  one,  and  she  held  them  to- 
ward him  with  the  tears  raining  down  her  cheeks. 

"My  heart's  just  bleeding  for  ye,  Rob,"  she  sobbed. 
"Is  it  no  enough  that  ye  should  have  my  trouble  to 
bear?" 

"Jean,"  he  warned  her,  somewhat  sternly,  "I  shall 
burn  all  the  letters  immediately  after  reading  them,  if 
you  persist  in  allowing  them  to  make  you  unhappy. 
Why"  —  he  lowered  his  voice  —  "I  was  beginning  to  be- 
lieve that  you'd  seen  the  silver  lining  of  the  cloud,  and 
that  you  understood  how  perfectly  content  I  am." 

"That's  like  you,  Rob,"  she  said,  drying  her  eyes. 
"But  so  many  things  creep  up  to  remind  me  of  the 
past,  even  if  I  do  sometimes  bring  myself  to  forget." 

"And,  Jean,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  "your  gratitude 
would  be  all  the  more  convincing  if  you  said  no  more 
about  it.  My  mind's  just  filled  with  the  work  that's 
going  on  here.  If  only  I  could  persuade  these  people 
to  let  me  have  double  the  staff,  I  could  put  this  job 
through  in  half  the  contract  time  ;  and  what  a  feather 
in  my  cap  that  would  be!  And,  Jean,  there's  some- 
thing else  to  live  for  out  here." 

She  threw  him  a  look  of  inquiry  —  he  had  taken  to 
pacing  the  floor. 

"I  had  decided  not  to  say  anything  to  you  about  it 
until  the  evidences  were  stronger;  I  didn't  want  to 
raise  false  hopes." 

"False  hopes,  Robert?    What  about?" 

"Yuchi  was  the  first  to  convey  the  information.   H: 


PAINTED  HOURS 113 

is  a  clever  little  fellow,  and,  although  he  has  no  con- 
ception of  the  importance  o,f  the  discovery,  he  seems 
to  understand  that  we're  on  a  pretty  good  thing,  if 
only  v^e  can  get  the  authorities  to  grant  the  conces- 
sions we  intend  to  seek." 

"Robert,  are  you  talking  like  this  just  to  turn  my 
thoughts  ?" 

"No.  I'm  going  to  tell  you  of  something  that  ought 
to  strengthen  you  in  your  determination  to  forget  the 
past  and  to  march  onward.  Jean,  my  girl,  you  and  I 
have  never  thrashed  out  this  trouble  together,  and  I 
don't  intend  to  do  so  now,  because  if  I  said  to  you  that 
I  thought  nothing  of  it,  that  it  was  nothing,  a  matter 
of  indifference,  you  wouldn't  believe  me;  and  I  can't 
tell  you  that  it  is  something  so  terrible  that  all  the 
world  would  be  justified  in  turning  its  back  upon  you. 
But  I  do  insist  that  in  all  the  circumstances  you  have 
no  right  to  see  only  the  dark  side  of  everything.  After 
all,  Jean,  I  owe  a  great  deal  to  you.  I  wish  you  could 
realize  that.  Call  it  what  you  will — telepathy,  trans- 
mission of  thought,  or  inspiration — I  know  only  this : 
that  when  you're  about,  when  I  can  hear  your  voice,  I 
feel  brighter,  my  brain  works  more  actively." 

"Was  there  ever  such  a  man !"  she  murmured. 

"Now,  this  thing  that  has  happened,  or  is  going  to 
happen.  For  the  first  time  since  I  commenced  to  earn 
an  appreciable  salary,  I  regretted  that  it  had  been 
necessary  to  send  so  much  to  the  old  people.  If  I 
could  put  my  hand  on  all  that  I  have  sent  to  them  dur- 
ing the  last  few  years,  I  might  be  an  immensely  rich 
man  in  less  than  twelve  months  from  now.  But  that's 
the  luck  of  the  MacWhinnies." 


114  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"It's  not  like  you  to  regret  what  you've  done  for 
them." 

"I'm  not  complaining,  Jean ;  only  it's  hard  to  be  led 
right  up  to  the  verge  of  wealth  and  not  to  be  allowed 
to  stretch  forth  a  hand  to  take  some  of  it.  Still,  I'm 
not  complaining,  as  I  said  just  now.  I  am  in  a  position 
to  put  my  hand  on  a  certain  amount,  and  Taro  Yuchi 
has  several  influential  friends  in  Tokio  who,  he  says, 
will  come  forward  at  the  right  moment." 

"But  for  what,  Robert?  What  is  it  that  you're  talk- 
ing about?" 

"We  touched  coal  the  other  day.  There's  no  doubt 
about  it — coal !  And  unless  I'm  greatly  mistaken,  the 
seam  runs  for  miles,  and  near  the  surface." 

"And  what  then?"  Her  eyes  were  glowing  with 
wonder. 

-  "What  then,  Jean?  If  we  can  obtain  a  concession 
from  the  Government  to  mine  the  district — well,  you 
wouldn't  be  able  to  calculate  the  worth  of  it  as  the 
result  of  two  years'  working.  Yuchi  discovered  it. 
I'll  give  him  credit  for  that.  I  was  the  first  that  he 
took  into  his  confidence.  I  once  rendered  a  little  serv- 
ice to  Yuchi — a  very  small  matter — but  I  don't  think 
he'll  ever  forget  it.  There's  a  lot  in  that  old  injunc- 
tion of  casting  your  bread  upon  the  waters.  .  .  .  Any- 
way, you  keep  that  to  yourself,  and  as  soon  as  there's 
any  development  of  the  project  you  shall  know  all 
about  it.  Try  to  think  of  it,  Jean,  as  something  to  live 
for,  and  that'll  keep  your  mind  off  other  matters. 
Now,  having  dried  those  tears,  I've  something  else  to 
tell  you.  Three  or  four  of  Yuchi's  friends  came  up 
from  the  south  by  this  morning's  train.  He  is  enter- 


PAINTED  HOURS 115 

taining  them  at  a  tea  house,  and  you  and  I  will  join 
the  party.  You'll  enjoy  it,  Jean.  It's  about  the  only 
interesting  feature  of  this  country,  in  my  opinion.  I 
don't  know  much  about  the  tea  houses  of  Sendai,  but 
Yuchi  tells  me  there  is  one  which  he  calls  'The  House 
of  a  Thousand  Joys.'  We  are  to  dine  a  la  Japonaise, 
and  if  you  get  half  as  much  fun  out  of  it  as  I  did  out 
of  one  at  Tokio,  you'll  talk  about  it  for  the  rest  of 
your  life.  The  party  commences  to-morrow  after- 
noon at  four.  I  shall  come  home  early,  and  we'll  go 
down  in  jinrikishas." 

She  grasped  his  hand  impulsively,  and  her  eyes 
danced  as  she  said : 

"Robert,  you're  always  thinking  of  how  you  can 
please  me." 

"And  you'll  always  please  me,"  he  replied  gravely, 
"if  you'll  try  to  remember  that  when  you're  depressed, 
I'm  depressed — when  you're  elated,  my  sky  is  full  of 
sunshine." 


CHAPTER    XIII 

AT  THE  HOUSE  OF  A  THOUSAND  JOYS 

THE  finishing  touch  to  a  simple,  yet  exquisite, 
toilet  was  a  maple  leaf  loosely  threaded  in 
Jean's  bronze  hair;  the  dress  was  of  plain  white 
muslin,  and  made  by  herself  during  the  voyage  from 
England;  a  tartan  sash  clasped  the  waist.  As  she 
came  down  from  her  room,  Robert  caught  her  up,  and 
with  boyish  enthusiasm  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks,  de- 
claring that  not  until  that  moment  had  he  realized  how 
beautiful  she  was.  And  though  she  bade  him  "ha'e 
done  wi'  his  havering/'  her  cheeks  blushed  with  pride. 
They  drove  in  a  double  jinrikisha  to  the  House  of 
a  Thousand  Joys,  and  whirled  up  to  the  veranda  in  a 
cloud  of  dust.  A  line  of  geisha  awaited  them  on  the 
veranda,  their  gaudily  colored  kimonos  suggesting  a 
strip  from  a  rainbow.  Behind  the  line  were  Yuchi 
and  his  friends;  the  little  man  came  down  the  steps 
and,  with  excessive  politeness,  assisted  Jean  to  alight. 
Robert  had  leaped  from  the  flimsy  conveyance  as  soon 
as  the  shafts  were  lowered  to  the  ground  by  the  "boy," 
and,  after  slapping  Yuchi  heartily  on  the  shoulders, 
ran  lightly  up  the  steps  to  grasp  the  hand  of  a  tall, 
bronzed  European  who  was  standing  among  Yuchi's 
friends  like  a  Gulliver  among  the  Lilliputians. 

"Morrow!     Dick  Morrow!"   he  cried  delightedly. 
116 


AT  THE  HOUSE  OF  A  THOUSAND  JOYS     117 

"Who  arranged  this  pleasant  surprise?"  He  swung 
round,  Morrow's  hand  still  grasped  in  his,  and  hailed 
Jean,  who  was  returning  the  welcomes  of  the  geisha 
in  their  own  language,  and  enjoying  her  slips  as  much 
as  was  Yuchi.  "Jean,  my  dear,  come  here  at  once  and 
let  me  introduce  you  to  the  whitest  man  in  the  East." 

She  went  forward  slowly,  falteringly.  Somehow  a 
shadow  had  fallen  on  the  House  of  a  Thousand  Joys. 
She  felt  nervous,  afraid,  and  there  was  deep  reproach 
in  the  glance  she  gave  her  brother. 

"Dick  Morrow,  dear" — he  was  too  excited  to  read 
aright  the  look  in  her  eyes — "the  Reverend  Richard 
Morrow,  to  give  him  his  full  handle,  but  'Dick'  suits 
him  better  than  all  the  titles  even  the  Mikado  could 
heap  upon  him." 

A  geisha  came  sliding  out  of  the  house,  and  with  a 
smile  and  a  word  of  Japanese,  Morrow  handed  her 
his  topee,  then  moved  toward  Jean.  She  held  out  her 
hand ;  all  the  laughter  had  fled  from  her  face.  Robert 
brought  the  two  together. 

"My  sister  Jean,  Dick.  You  remember  how  I  used 
to  rave  about  her?" 

Jean  raised  her  eyes,  to  meet  a  pair  as  blue  as  her 
own. 

"Dick's  a  missionary,  dear,"  Robert  explained,  "but 
different  from  all  the  missionaries  you  ever  heard  of." 

To  Jean,  Richard  Morrow  was  more  like  a  guards- 
man than  the  missionary  of  her  conception;  he  was 
taller  even  than  Robert,  and  there  was  greater  breadth 
of  shoulder ;  the  hair  was  fair  and  thin,  the  high  tem- 
ples fully  exposed. 

"Your  brother  and  I  are  old  friends,"  he  said,  as  he 


118  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

pressed  her  hand,  "and  although  this  is  the  first  time 
I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  I  can  assure  you 
that  you  are  no  stranger.  Robert  and  I  shared  a 
bungalow  in  Tskijui  for  a  time,  and  generally  the 
evening  was  spent  in  talking  of  the  old  people  and — 
you." 

"That'll  do,  Dick,"  came  from  Robert.  "Jean 
knows  enough,  without  telling  her  more.  .  .  .  Jean, 
you  have  a  natural  taste  for  stories  of  adventure — 
get  Dick  to  yarn  about  his  China  days:  pirates,  Box- 
ers, and  all  that  kind  of  thing." 

Richard  Morrow  shook  his  head  deprecatingly. 

"Miss  MacWhinnie  doesn't  want  to  hear  those 
stories,"  he  said  smilingly;  "they're  for  men — men 
who  are  tired  of  listening  to  the  cicada  screaming  and 
the — the  samisen.  You  have  heard  the  samisen,  Miss 
MacWhinnie?" 

Jean  nodded  dolefully. 

"I've  been  listening  to  it  for  twelve  weary  years," 
he  told  her,  "and  I've  given  up  hope  of  convincing 
these  dear  people  that  it  isn't  musical.  .  .  .  And  how 
long  have  you  been  in  the  country?" 

"Only  a  month  or  so,"  said  Jean,  with  another  side- 
long glance  at  Robert. 

"And  you've  come  out  for  a  holiday  and  been  dis- 
appointed." 

"Why  should  I  be  disappointed?"  she  asked,  in  the 
far-away  tone  of  one  who  had  nothing  else  to  say. 

"Everyone  professes  to  be  disappointed  in  the  coun- 
try, but  there  is  a  charm  about  it  quite  distinct  from 
the  flowery  pictures  painted  by  some  of  the  Western- 
ers. It  isn't  a  land  of  toy  people,  and  they're  not  so 


AT  THE  HOUSE  OF  A  THOUSAND  JOYS    119 

clever  that  the  wonder  is  they  haven't  conquered  the 
world  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Those  Western  word 
painters  have  a  great  deal  to  answer  for.'* 

"I've  found  it  very  interesting  thus  far,"  Jean  ven- 
tured. 

"Of  course  you  have;  and  there's  much  more  to 
interest  you.  Personally,  I  should  like  to  have  another 

glimpse  of  the  old  country,  but ''  He  held  up  his 

hand  in  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"Can't  you  afford  it  ?"  she  asked  seriously.  "It's  an 
awful  lot  of  money — isn't  it?" 

He  smiled  at  her  ingenuousness,  but  immediately 
confessed  that  he  wasn't  able  to  charter  a  steamship, 
and  never  would  be,  so  long  as  he  remained  a  mission- 
ary. 

"If  I  told  you  that  I  couldn't  leave  the  country  be- 
cause I  was  so  much  in  love  with  my  work,  the  chances 
are  that  you'd  dub  me  a  hypocrite.  And  I  hate  hy- 
pocrisy." 

She  averted  her  face.  Robert  had  returned  to 
Yuchi,  and  was  being  introduced  to  the  other  guests — 
officials  who  had  come  up  from  Tokio. 

"Shall  we  go  inside?"  Morrow  inquired  of  her, 
offering  an  arm. 

She  held  back;  she  was  anticipating  a  thousand 
questions. 

"I  think  Robert  would  like  me  to  speak  to  his 
friends,"  she  said  shyly. 

"Oh!  they'll  introduce  themselves,"  he  assured  her. 
"This  banquet  will  last  longer  than  you  think." 

She  gave  a  final  glance  in  Robert's  direction.    Then : 

"Are  you  staying  in  Sendai?" 


120  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"I  wish  I  were" — and  his  eyes,  in  meeting  hers,  em- 
phasized the  wish. 

"You're  going  away — to-morrow?" 

Her  face  was  so  grave  and  her  voice  so  full  of  anx- 
iety that  he  hardly  knew  what  response  to  make. 

"There's  a  little  trouble  in  the  north,"  he  said,  at 
last.  "I  was  on  my  way  there  when  I  ran  across  Yuchi 
in  Tokio.  Yuchi  helped  me  out  of  a  difficulty  eight 
years  ago,  and  we've  been  very  good  friends  since.  I 
was  young  and  green  in  those  days,  and  went  the 
wrong  way  to  work  to  soothe  an  angry  village." 

She  sighed,  and  looked  at  him  whimsically. 

"Are  you  a  monkey-wrench  man,  then  ?" 

He  shook  his  head  in  wonder. 

"It  was  a  while  ago  that  we  met  a  man  here;  he 
told  me  that  the  best  way  to  handle  a  native  was  with 
a  monkey-wrench." 

He  laughed  at  the  story  of  MacConnachie,  the  little 
engineer,  and  confessed  that  there  were  times  when  a 
monkey-wrench  would  be  much  more  useful  than  a 
hymn-book. 

"Then  why  do  missionaries  come  here?"  she  asked 
quietly,  secretly  glad  of  the  turn  of  the  conversation. 

"I  could  tell  you  why  I  came,"  he  said,  with  a  half 
sigh,  "but  I  don't  suppose  it  would  interest  you.  I 
cannot  tell  why  the  majority  come." 

"To  convert  the  people,  I  suppose,"  suggested  Jean. 

He  took  a  deep  breath. 

"Then,  I'm  a  failure,"  he  said.  "I  never  seek  to 
convert  them " 

"Then  you're  not  earning  your  wages." 

"No.    And  they  haven't  been  paid  for  a  long  while« 


AT  THE  HOUSE  OF  A  THOUSAND  JOYS    121 

...  I  teach  them,  or  try  to  teach  them,  to  respect  the 
religion  of  the  foreigner." 

"And  you're  going  away  to-morrow?" — dreamily. 

"There's  an  outbreak  or  something  up  there." 

"Fever?" 

"Maybe.  .  .  .  Probably  too  much  sake." 

"And  you'll  be  there  a  long  while?" 

"Not  very  long.    Probably  six  months." 

She  smiled  at  the  gestures  of  a  geisha  on  the  ve- 
randa a  few  yards  from  where  they  were  standing. 

"I'm  going  to  enjoy  this  banquet,"  she  said,  in  a 
bright  voice. 

Robert  came  up  with  the  other  guests  and  intro- 
duced them,  and  while  they  were  bowing  and  hissing 
around  her,  Jean  heard  her  brother  inviting  Richard 
Morrow  to  stay  with  him  at  least  a  few  days  before 
going  up  country. 

With  a  quickening  of  the  breath  she  waited  for 
Morrow's  reply,  dreading  an  acceptance.  Yuchi  had 
been  at  pains  to  describe  the  origin  of  the  tea  house,  as 
the  result  of  a  casual  remark  by  her,  but  disinterested- 
ness was  betrayed  by  the  wandering  eyes,  so  he  began 
it  all  over  again,  believing  that  she  had  not  heard.  She 
nodded  listlessly,  her  head  slightly  turned  toward  her 
brother. 

".  .  .  and  this  Daimio  had  a  beautiful  daughter, 
who  played  all  day  by  the  banks  of  the  Yedo.  ..." 
Yuchi  paused  to  take  breath. 

"My  dear  Robert,"  Morrow  was  saying,  "I  must 
press  on ;  even  this  delay  is  unfair  to  the  poor  beggar 
awaiting  me,  but  when  Yuchi  told  me  that  you  were 
here  I  couldn't  resist  the  . 


122  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

".  .  .  and  one  day  there  came  up  the  river  in  a  gold- 
en sampan  .  .  ." 

"Very  well.  I'll  stay  over  to-morrow  night,  and  we 
can  make  our  plans  for  the  future." 

There  was  a  lull.  Jean's  face  was  pathetically  dole- 
ful. Morrow's  next  words  set  her  heart  a-beating: 
"You  haven't  said  a  word  about  the  subject  that  was 
so  dear  to  your  soul  a  year  ago — your  prospective  mar- 
riage?" 

Robert's  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper. 

Richard  Morrow  exclaimed :  "My  dear  old  fellow !" 
and  his  voice  teemed  with  pity. 

Jean  turned  to  Yuchi. 

"Shall  we  go  in,  Mr.  Yuchi?"  she  said.  "I'm  dying 
to  see  the  inside  of  the  house." 

Richard  Morrow  broke  away  from  Robert,  and 
came  over  to  Jean.  She  accepted  the  proffered  arm, 
and,  their  shoes  having  been  removed,  in  accordance 
with  custom,  and  soft  slippers  fitted  in  their  place,  the 
party  passed  into  the  tea  house.  Within  ten  minutes, 
Jean  was  completely  at  ease  in  her  mind.  Yuchi,  as 
the  host,  was  in  the  middle  of  the  arc  which  the  guests 
formed  in  the  banqueting  room.  Jean  sat  on  his  left ; 
then  came  Richard  Morrow  and  two  of  Yuchi's  com- 
patriots; Robert  was  on  the  right  of  the  host.  A  band 
of  daintily  clad  musumes  brought  in  the  inevitable  tea, 
each  guest  having  a  personal  attendant;  Morrow  in- 
sisted on  Jean  sipping  from  his  cup,  assuring  her  that 
it  was  a  custom  of  the  country,  and  confessing  to  a 
faulty  knowledge  the  moment  after. 

"And  yet  I've  been  to  scores  of  these  banquets. 
They  grow  on  one." 


TAT  THE  HOUSE  OF  A  THOUSAND  JOYS    123 

Jean  glanced  down  at  the  second  course,  which  had 
been  placed  on  the  mat  at  her  side. 

"Hi-okwashi,"  whispered  Morrow,  "and  much  nicer 
than  oatmeal  cakes." 

"Do  you  value  Robert's  good  opinion?"  Jean  asked, 
with  feigned  seriousness. 

"I  think  I  value  yours  more,"  he  replied;  and  he 
never  could  tell  why,  from  that  moment,  she  gave  no 
lead  to  the  conversation. 

He  must  have  gathered  from  her  reticence  that  his 
remark  was  liable  to  be  misconstrued ;  but  he  was  not 
the  kind  of  man  to  apologize  for  a  liberty  which  he 
had  never  intended  to  take.  Nor  was  he  affronted  by 
her  sudden  coldness;  instead,  like  the  big-hearted, 
open-minded  fellow  that  he  was,  he  tried  to  call  back 
the  smiles  by  jest  and  story.  In  a  little  while  he  knew 
that  he  had  won,  for  Jean  was  hanging  on  his  words 
like  a  child  in  an  Eastern  courtyard  listening  to  some 
story-teller  of  the  desert.  He  had  led  an  adventurous 
life  from  his  early  boyhood,  and  although  behind  the 
seeming  lightness  of  his  mood  there  was  a  faint  note 
of  pathos,  of  regret,  he  lifted  her  out  of  herself,  and 
invested  the  moment  with  a  romance  of  which  she 
had  never  before  dreamed.  His  stories  were  told  in 
simple  language,  not  so  modestly  that  he  was  likely  to 
arouse  her  admiration  in  himself,  but  with  a  directness 
that  made  strong  appeal  to  her  simple  mind.  There 
were  tales  of  China,  of  days  when  missionaries  were 
never  certain  which  weapon  would  be  most  effective 
against  the  superstitious ;  tales  of  gun-running  before 
he  became  a  missionary;  of  expeditions  in  Formosa, 
when  the  head-hunters  were  enjoying  their  day  of  un- 


THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 


interrupted  carnage.  He  had  planted  tea  in  Ceylon, 
and  hunted  elephants  in  Southern  India.  He  seemed 
to  have  covered  the  whole  world  in  his  travels  ;  he  was 
familiar  with  every  port  ;  he  knew  the  line  to  which  a 
steamer  belonged  by  a  single  glance  at  her  flags  or 
funnels;  he  could  speak  a  dozen  tribal  languages,  and 
was  as  well  versed  in  medicine  as  many  a  practitioner 
at  home.  The  one  thing  he  didn't  know,  or  rather 
didn't  try  to  explain,  when  with  natural  inquisitive- 
ness  she  interjected  a  question,  was  why  he  became  a 
missionary. 

It  was  a  wonderful  night  for  Jean,  for  this  man 
with  the  broad,  bronzed  face  and  eyes  so  blue  and 
honest  that  the  mind  could  almost  be  read  through 
them,  taught  her  the  sublimest  of  gifts  :  how  to  forget. 
What  had  been  might  never  have  been.  All  the  sobs 
and  heartaches  of  the  last  few  months  might  never 
have  existed  ;  she  might  never  have  known  what  it  was 
to  hide  the  light  of  day  from  her  little  room  at  home 
and  pray  that  the  darkness  would  give  her  courage  to 
do  that  which  she  premeditated.  He  made  of  her  in 
those  few  hours  in  the  tea  house  —  he  made  of  her  a 
girl,  just  as  she  was  when  she  played  the  mother  to 
Robert  in  the  narrow,  cobbled  streets  of  Ballyhoustie. 
He  brought  back  laughter,  though  she  had  told  herself 
that  never  again  could  she  smile  in  earnest.  He  made 
her  feel  that  the  old  world  in  the  West  had  passed 
away  in  a  whirl  of  cloud,  and  that  a  new  earth  had 
appeared  in  the  Eastern  hemisphere.  He  had  told  her 
that  for  twelve  years  his  life  had  been  lived  exclusive- 
ly among  the  natives  of  the  interior  ;  he  told  her,  also, 
that  they  had  been  the  happiest  years  of  his  life. 


AT  THE  HOUSE  OF  A  THOUSAND  JOYS    125 

"Lonely?  No,  I've  never  been  lonely,"  he  said. 
"Loneliness  is  generally  the  result  of  selfishness.  You'll 
always  find  something  of  interest  in  the  smallest  thing 
created,  if  by  the  exercise  of  a  little  imagination  you 
will  invest  that  smallest  thing  with  the  importance  with 
which  it  was  dignified  in  the  beginning." 

During  the  banquet,  Robert  came  over  to  them,  and 
the  glow  on  her  cheeks,  the  sparkle  in  her  eyes,  was  a 
greater  joy  to  him  than  any  he  could  remember  since 
they  sailed  from  the  Thames. 

There  was  dancing  and  samisen  playing,  and  a 
group  of  geisha  gave  an  exhibition  of  posturing.  A 
little  singing  girl  paid  court  to  Morrow  in  a  dainty 
fantasy  by  one  of  the  native  poets,  and  Morrow  de- 
lighted everyone  by  blending  his  rich  baritone  with  the 
singing  girl's  voice  in  a  duet. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  the  banquet  came  to 
an  end.  Shawls  of  Indian  silk  were  brought  for  "O 
Jean  San."  The  veranda  was  strung  with  lighted  lan- 
terns, and  the  waiting  jinrikisha  in  which  she  was  to 
drive  back  to  the  bungalow  was  covered  with  blossoms, 
while  a  painted  lantern  hung  from  each  shaft.  Mor- 
row assisted  Jean  into  her  carriage,  and  turned  to  call 
Robert  to  take  his  place  by  her  side;  but  impulsively 
Jean  moved  her  white  skirt,  and  there  was  a  look  of 
invitation  in  her  eyes.  He  climbed  up  beside  her. 
Robert,  coming  down  the  steps  at  that  moment,  hailed 
a  second  vehicle,  and  promised  the  "boy"  an  extra  yen 
if  he  won  the  race  home. 


A   SERMON   ON    THE  VERANDA 

THE  run  through  the  cool  night  air  was  a  perfect 
antidote  to  the  fatigue  of  the  long  hours  in  the 
tea  house,  and  by  the  time  the  bungalow  was 
reached  Jean  was  as  wide  awake  as  when  first  she  set 
out.  All  three  were  in  high  spirits,  and  to  lessen  the 
risks  of  the  banquet  Robert  insisted  on  a  Western 
supper.  Jean  herself  prepared  it,  rather  than  arouse 
the  sleeping  servants;  and  if  Robert  had  not  been  so 
preoccupied,  he  would  have  marked  the  admiring  looks 
Richard  Morrow  gave  Jean  as  she  went  to  and  fro  in 
the  preparing  of  that  meal.  And  when,  at  last,  they 
pushed  back  their  chairs,  Jean  urged  them  to  the  ve- 
randa while  she  cleared  away  the  things. 

They  were  lying  back  in  rattan  chairs,  burning  to- 
bacco with  the  luxuriousness  of  sybarites,  when  she 
rejoined  them;  and  Richard  Morrow  was  saying: 
"And  now  let's  hear  about  your  work." 

She  seated  herself  in  a  chair  between  them,  after 
her  brother  had  been  assured  that  they  were  not  keep- 
ing her  up. 

''Work?"  said  Robert,  reaching  out  for  the  match 
that  Jean  seemed  always  to  have  ready.  "It's  going 
so  smoothly,  Dick,  that  I  almost  feel  ashamed  of  the 
progress  made.  I  like  to  feel  that  I've  earned  what 

126 


A  SERMON  ON  THE  VERANDA         127 

I'm  paid.  In  another  month  or  two  we  shall  have 
linked  up  the  two  lines." 

"And  then?"  asked  Morrow,  and  his  eyes  sought 
Jean's. 

"What  should  you  think?"  said  Robert. 

"You'll  go  back  home,  of  course.  That's  what  they 
all  do  when  they've  made  enough." 

"But  I  shall  never  have  made  enough,"  said  Robert. 

"Avarice  is  surely  the  last  of  your  vices,"  Morrow 
said. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  it  is,"  said  Robert.  "In  fact, 
during  the  last  month  or  two  I  have  been  thinking  per- 
haps a  little  too  much  about  the  power  of  wealth.  It's 
so  easy  to  make  the  gaining  of  money  the  first  ambi- 
tion in  life." 

"And  that's  not  like  you.  What  does  your  sister 
say?" 

"Whatever  Robert  says  is  right,"  said  Jean. 

"I'm  on  a  big  thing  out  here,  Dick."  And  Robert 
gave  his  friend  a  searching  look,  as  though  he  were 
calculating  his  loyalty. 

"You've  been  doing  big  things  ever  since  you  came 
first  to  the  country,"  said  Morrow.  "What's  the  latest 
plan?" 

"Would  you  like  to  come  into  it?" 

Jean  blew  out  the  match  after  lighting  Robert's 
pipe. 

"Would  you  go  into  anything  yourself,  Robert," 
she  asked,  "if  you  didn't  know  anything  at  all  about 
it?" 

"I've  made  a  big  discovery,"  said  Robert  to  Mor- 
row, "and  when  I'm  through  with  this  work  I'm  going 


128  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

down  to  see  them  at  Tokio,  with  the  object  of  getting 
a  concession.  It's  coal.  Yuchi  is  in  it.  It  was  he 
who  put  me  up  to  it.  Yuchi  has  a  good  head  on  his 
shoulders." 

"They  all  have  good  heads,  these  Japanese,"  said 
Morrow,  not  in  the  least  enthusiastic. 

"I  can  trust  Yuchi.  He's  the  most  loyal  man  that 
I've  had  under  me.  He  has  influence,  as  I  have,  and 
the  concession  is  as  good  as  granted.  Why  don't  you 
come  in,  Dick?  You're  pessimistic  about  it?" 

"About  the  coal  ?  Oh,  no !  I  shouldn't  be  surprised 
to  learn  that  there  is  more  coal  in  this  country  than  in 
your  own,  although  there  would  be  much  greater 
chance  of  success  if  you  searched  for  gold." 

"You  know  something,  Dick?" 

Morrow  was  calmly  recharging  his  pipe. 

"Perhaps  I  do,"  he  said ;  "but  it  never  interested  me 
sufficiently,  so  that  I  can't  speak  with  the  detail  of  a 
prospector." 

Robert's  eyes  were  blinking  thoughtfully. 

"It  was  only  a  jest,  wasn't  it — the  gold,  I  mean? 
You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you've  come  across  evi- 
dences of  it?" 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Morrow,  "don't  look  at  me 
like  a  company  promoter!  It  isn't  like  you.  It  isn't 
like  the  Robert  MacWhinnie  I  knew  two  years  ago. 
What  if  I  said  yes  ?" 

"I  should  doubt  it,"  said  Robert. 

"And  that's  not  like  you,  either.  But  if  it  will  turn 
your  mind  from  this  coal  business,  I  will  tell  you  that 
during  the  last  twelve  years  I  have  come  across  gold- 
bearing  quartz,  silver  ore,  and  tin." 


A  SERMON  ON  THE  VERANDA         129 

"Dick,  you've  had  too  much  sake." 

"I  never  touch  it,"  said  Morrow. 

"And  you  mean  to  say  that  you've  never  tried  to 
exploit  these  discoveries  ?" 

"Why  should  I  ?    It  isn't  my  profession." 

"But,  think  of  it,  man!  I  could  get  together  a  hun- 
dred capitalists  to-morrow,  if  I  could  give  them  proof 
of  the  existence  of  gold-bearing  quartz !" 

"I  dare  say  I  could  interest  a  thousand ;  but  I  don't 
wish  to." 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  so  wealthy  as  all  that," 
said  Robert,  with  a  sigh. 

"I'm  so  wealthy,"  said  Morrow,  "that,  as  your  dear 
sister  suggested  at  the  banquet,  I  couldn't  afford  to  go 
home  if  I  wished  to.  ...  Robert,  old  fellow" — he 
leaned  over  and  tapped  Robert's  chair  with  the  bowl 
of  his  pipe — '"don't  let  avarice  get  into  your  soul. 
Once  it  gets  in,  you'll  never  get  it  out,  and  it  can  eat 
into  a  good  heart  with  the  deadly  effect  of  a  canker- 
worm  eating  into  an  apple.  You're  doing  splendid 
work  out  here.  Surely  that  ought  to  be  enough  for 
you.  In  a  few  years,  if  you  progress  at  the  same  rate, 
you  will  be  able  to  do  what  you  used  to  say  was  the 
height  of  your  ambition." 

"I've  forgotten  it,"  said  Robert  sullenly. 

"I  can't  believe  it.  There  used  to  be  a  picture  in 
your  mind — you  described  it  to  me  a  thousand  times. 
It  was  a  huge  signboard  over  the  gates  of  an  engineer- 
ing yard  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames — 'MacWhinnie 
Brothers.'  " 

Robert  shrugged  his  shoulders,  as  though  he  didn't 
care  to  pursue  those  lines. 


130  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"My  dear  Morrow,  you're  allowing  your  profession- 
al spirit  to  override  sound  judgment." 

"No,  I  never  do  that." 

"You  have  it  in  your  mind  that  Yuchi  has  taken 
advantage  of  me — of  my  greenness." 

"Knowing  Yuchi  as  I  do,"  said  Morrow,  "I'm  cer- 
tain that  he  wouldn't  do  anything  of  the  kind.  But, 
tell  me — do  you  think  these  people  over  here  are  so 
childish  that  they  would  grant  you  the  concessions 
you  sought  if  they  had  the  slightest  inkling  of  what 
was  behind  your  application?" 

"Now,  you're  preaching,"  said  Robert.  "You  don't 
suppose  for  one  minute  that  I  should  go  to  them  and 
inform  them  that  here  was  coal  easily  to  be  worked, 
and  that  I  wanted  a  concession  for  a  nominal  sum? 
Naturally  they  wouldn't  grant  it." 

"All  right,  Robert,"  said  Morrow  lightly.  "Don't 
let  me  interfere  with  your  plans.  I  told  you  in  the 
first  place  that  I  wasn't  interested,  personally.  Only  I 
think  it  would  hurt  if  the  old  Robert  MacWhinnie  did 
anything  that  wasn't  strictly  honorable." 

Robert  straightened  himself  in  his  chair. 

"Honorable!  My  dear  Dick,  you're  the  last  person 
in  the  world  I  would  accuse  of  narrow-mindedness; 
but,  really,  it's  too  absurd." 

"No,  I  don't  think  it  is.  Wait  till  you  come  to 
think  it  out  calmly.  These  people  have  treated  you 
very  well.  You  used  to  say  that  yourself.  And  it's  a 
bankrupt  country.  They  need  all  the  money  they  can 
get  hold  of  for  the  educating  of  their  people.  During 
the  last  few  years  there  have  been  many  instances  of 


A  SERMON  ON  THE  VERANDA         131 

the  cunning  of  the  Westerner  outwitting  a  primitive 
people." 

"But,  if  they  should  grant  me  this  concession,  you're 
not  going  to  suggest  that  there  is  anything  dishonor- 
able in  the  working  of  a  coal  mine?  It's  ridiculous!" 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Morrow,  "Im  trying 
to  save  you  from  your  own  impulsiveness.  Here,  in 
this  country,  you  have  a  chance  to  realize  all  the  ambi- 
tions that  were  yours  two  years  ago.  And  you  can 
realize  them  honorably.  I  want  to  see  you  do  that.  I 
hope  I  may  live  to  see  the  day  when  these  people  will 
recognize  you  as  you  deserve  to  be  recognized.  Why,  I 
doubt  that  any  man  has  earned  so  much  respect  as  you 
have  during  the  last  three  years.  Down  in  Tokio,  the 
name  of  Robert  MacWhinnie  is  synonymous  with 
honor.  The  natives  speak  of  you — in  Osaka,  Naga- 
saki, Kobe — as  the  one  man  they  have  met  to  whom 
honor  appears  to  be  as  dear  as  life  itself.  You  might 
go  through  a  thousand  battles,  winning  victory  after 
victory,  without  gaining  for  yourself  so  great  a  tribute. 
.  .  .  And,  having  preached  so  much,  I'll  enjoy  another 
pipe,  if  I  may,  and  then  I'll  turn  in.  Your  sister  isn't 
interested  in  our  conversation.  She's  tired — she  must 
be — and  I  should  be  a  very  ungrateful  guest  if  I  kept 
you  up  any  longer." 

Jean  leaned  over  the  back  of  Robert's  chair  and 
kissed  him  on  the  cheek. 

"Good  night,"  she  said ;  and  to  Richard  Morrow  she 
held  out  her  hand. 

When  she  was  gone,  Robert  leaned  toward  his 
friend's  chair  and  whispered  very  earnestly : 

"I'm  keen  on  this  coal  business,  Dick,  and  it  isn't 


132  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

avarice  that  has  hold  of  me.  Between  you  and  me, 
the  striving  to  accumulate  money  helps  to  deaden  a 
lot  of  pain  in  one's  life." 

Morrow  maintained  a  sympathetic  silence  for  a 
minute. 

"Bearing  in  mind  what  you  told  me  at  the  banquet, 
Robert,"  he  said  presently,  "I  can  almost  understand 
your  feelings ;  but,  believe  me,  great  wealth  is  seldom 
a  solatium.  Very  often  it  makes  grief  greater  than  it 
really  is,  because  it  serves  to  excite  the  imagination. 
It  urges  you  to  think  of  what  might  have  been,  and 
to  dwell  too  long  on  the  supposed  ironies  of  life. 
There !  That  is  the  last  word  from  me  on  the  subject. 
Now  don't  continue  the  argument,  because  this  is  the 
first  night  of  thorough  enjoyment  that  I've  had  for 
nearly  twelve  years.  I  want  to  sit  here,  smoking 
quietly,  for  half  an  hour,  before  I  curl  up  on  my  rice- 
mat.  By  this  time  to-morrow  night  I  shall  be  plug- 
ging northward,  with  the  prospect  of  being  buried  for 
six  or  seven  months.  Maybe  you  will  have  moved 
from  Sendai  by  that  time." 

"It's  almost  certain,"  said  Robert,  "but  you'll  al- 
ways be  able  to  trace  me  by  applying  to  headquarters. 
When  did  you  say  you  were  coming  back  ?" 

"Seven  months,  at  the  latest." 

Robert  blew  out  a  cloud  of  smoke.  His  eyes  were 
nearly  closed. 

"Seven  months,"  he  echoed.  "Ah,  yes!  That's 
all  right,  Dick,  and  we'll  have  a  great  night  when  you 
come  back.  .  .  .  Come  along,  and  I'll  show  you  your 
room." 


A  SERMON  ON  THE  VERANDA         133 

Robert  left  his  pipe  on  the  table  near  his  chair,  and 
Dick  drew  his  attention  to  it. 

"I  shall  have  another  smoke,"  said  Robert.  "There 
are  two  or  three  specifications  to  work  out  for  Yuchi. 
We  hope  to  get  through  with  the  bridge  across  the 
river  before  the  next  big  tides." 

"You'll  get  through  with  it,  Robert,"  said  Dick 
encouragingly,  "if  you  show  anything  like  the  old 
spirit." 

"Maybe,"  said  Robert,  "but  these  natives  are  not  so 
submissive  as  they  were  three  years  ago.  They're  be- 
ginning to  understand  that  a  man  is  worthy  of  his  hire. 
They  used  to  work  for  thirty  sen  a  day,  these  laborers ; 
but  you  don't  get  them  to  do  it  nowadays." 

"That's  the  finest  tribute  that  has  ever  been  paid  to 
my  work,"  said  Dick. 

"Oh,  it's  not  religion  that's  doing  it!"  said  Robert, 
always  ready  for  an  argument. 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Dick.  "You  see,  we  haven't 
come  to  that  stage  yet.  We're  teaching  them  first  to 
appreciate  the  fact  that  they  are  men.  By  the  time 
you  get  that  coal  concession,  Robert — I  must  have  an- 
other last  word! — you'll  find  that  your  thirty  sen  la- 
borer will  ask  for  his  three  yen  a  day,  and  a  day  of 
eight  hours."  And  with  a  light  laugh  Richard  Mor- 
row went  to  his  room. 

Robert  returned  to  the  veranda.  It  was  a  perfect 
night,  with  the  faintest  puff  of  breeze  to  stir  the  air. 

He  left  the  veranda,  and  went  down  into  the  com- 
pound, where  he  sat  by  the  side  of  Jean's  gold-fish 
pond.  The  moon,  looking  down  from  straight  over- 


head,  painted  many  faces  on  the  placid  water.  He  saw 
only  one. 

Richard  Morrow  was  right.  Honor  represented 
everything  to  Robert  MacWhinnie.  And  Robert  was 
right.  Only  in  work — hard,  unsparing  work — could 
he  find  relief  from  the  pain  that  was  always  there. 

His  pipe  had  gone  out ;  he  was  staring  at  the  water, 
his  head  moving  slowly  to  the  current  of  his  thoughts, 
when  someone  in  a  purple  kimono  came  softly  down 
the  veranda  steps.  He  half  turned  as  she  neared  him. 

"All  right,  Jean,"  he  said,  in  a  tired  voice.  "I  was 
just  enjoying  the  peace  of  the  moment.  Couldn't  you 
sleep?" 

"Not  until  I  had  seen  you  alone,  Robert" 

"How  now?"  he  exclaimed,  rising  and  placing  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me,"  she  said,  in  a  trembling 
voice,  "and  I  promise  you  that  I'll  never  broach  the 
subject  again  without  your  permission." 

He  frowned  slightly,  but  said:    "Yes;  what  is  it?" 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  you  said  to  Mr.  Morrow 
in  the  tea  house  when  he  asked  you  about — about  your 
marriage  ?" 

"I  told  him  a  lie,"  said  Robert,  "and  if  you  don't  go 
straight  back  to  your  room,  I  shall  tell  you  one ;  and  I 
don't  want  two  to  my  discredit." 

He  said  it  laughingly,  but  Jean  knew  that  he  was 
not  to  be  moved.  She  tried  another  way. 

"Robert,"  she  said,  and  her  eyelids  drooped,  "don't 
you  think  that  Richard  Morrow  is  too  good  a  man  to 
be  lied  to?" 


A  SERMON  ON  THE  VERANDA         135 

"He's  too  good  a  friend,"  said  Robert,  "not  to  un- 
derstand if  he  should  learn  the  truth." 

"You've  been  lying  to  me,  Robert,  all  along.  I 
heard  you  say  to  Mr.  Morrow — I  hadn't  gone  to  bed, 
and  I  couldn't  help  overhearing — I  heard  you  say  that 
the  accumulating  of  wealth  helped  to  deaden  the  pain 
in  one's  life.  He  didn't  understand,  but  I  did.  Your 
heart's  just  full  of  pain." 

"Anxiety,  you  mean,  Jean.  That  coal  has  got  hold 
of  me,  and  especially  his  yarns  about  gold  and  silver. 
Morrow  knows  what  he's  talking  about,  and  .  .  . 
Jean!  there's  a  lizard  under  your  feet!  Get  back  to 
your  room." 


CHAPTER    XV 

UNDEFINED   HOPES 

THE  next  morning,  Robert  went  down  to  super- 
intend the  work  at  the  bridge,  leaving  Jean  to 
entertain  Dick  until  he  should  return  in  the 
late  afternoon.  Throughout  the  day,  the  two — Jean 
and  Morrow — enjoyed  themselves  like  two  children 
wandering  over  the  moors  at  home.  Never  for  a  mo- 
ment was  there  the  slightest  embarrassment  on  either 
side — not  even  when  he  carried  her  in  his  arms  across 
a  patch  of  swamp.  When  they  went  down  the  slope  to 
meet  Robert  on  his  return  from  the  labors  of  the  day, 
one  would  have  thought  that  they  had  known  each 
other  from  childhood. 

It  was  a  joyous  evening  that  followed,  with  Richard 
Morrow  playing  the  role  of  raconteur,  and  seemingly 
making  it  the  height  of  his  ambition  to  part  Jean's  lips 
in  laughter.  He  left  long  before  the  native  watchman 
stole  round  the  grounds  with  his  wooden  click-clack. 
He  left  in  anything  save  an  atmosphere  of  misgiving, 
although  they  knew,  as  he  did,  of  the  dangers  that  lay 
before  him.  And  when  Jean  and  Robert  were  alone 
again — just  when  that  feeling  of  loneliness  that  fol- 
lows, inevitably,  a  parting,  came  creeping  into  the 
bungalow,  when  the  shaded  lights  were  beginning  to 
burn  low — 'Robert  looked  up  from  his  book  to  see 

136 


UNDEFINED  HOPES 13? 

Jean's  eyes  dim  with  tears,  and  tears  that  were  not  of 
sadness.  With  a  half  smile  that  he  hoped  would  hide 
his  own  emotions,  he  dropped  back  into  the  accent  of 
earlier  days : 

"He's  an  awf'y  nice  man,  Jean." 

"Ay,  Robert,"  she  said,  and  looked  away. 

"I'm  glad  you  liked  him." 

"Could  a  body  help  liking  him?" 

"It  doesna  seem  altogether  right  that  he  should  be 
wasting  his  life  out  here." 

"Wad  ye  call  it  wasting,  Robert?" 

"A  straight  man" — reflectively. 

"Awf'y  straight." 

"And  open,  Jean." 

"As  your  ain  guid  sel'." 

"And  yet,  Jean — and  yet  there's  something  about 
Dick  Morrow  that  I've  never  been  able  to  under- 
stand." 

"Why  he  should  be  here?" 

"That's  it." 

"He's  no  hypocrite,  Robert." 

"I  grant  ye  that.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  he  was 
never  made  for  this  work.  Do  you  know  what  oc- 
curred to  me  when  he  was  sitting  on  the  veranda  last 
night  and  speaking  first  with  the  carelessness  of  a  boy 
and  then  with  the  solemnity  of  an  old  man?  It  oc- 
curred to  me,  Jean,  that  Dick  Morrow  was  undergoing 
— shall  I  say  it? — a  kind  of  penance." 

"Robert,  man,  how  ye  haver!" 

"Maybe  it's  my  imagination.  .  .  .  Wasted — that's 
what  I  call  it.  And  yet  I  have  heard  that  Dick  Mor- 
row can  do  more  out  in  the  wilds,  among  the  most 


138  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

primitive  of  these  people — these  villagers  who  haven't 
yet  learned  even  of  the  evolution  of  their  own  country 
— I  have  heard  that  he  can  do  more  with  these  people 
than  the  authorities  themselves." 

"Does  that  surprise  you,  Robert?" 

"I  don't  mean  that  he  has  so  impressed  them  with 
his — with  his  faith — that  he  has  awed  them.  I  don't 
mean  that  at  all.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  believe 
Dick  ever  tries  to  set  them  a  better  example  than  his 
own.  Do  you  quite  follow  me,  Jean?  What  kind  of 
an  influence  did  he  have  upon  you  ?" 

She  looked  up  suddenly. 

"Why  do  you  ask  me  that,  Robert?" 

And  he  returned  her  startled  look. 

"I  mean,  did  you  feel  the  personality  of  the  man, 
the  magnetism?" 

"Ye  were  always  generous  to  your  friends,  Robert." 

"One  couldn't  be  too  generous  to  Richard  Morrow. 
I  assure  you,  Jean,  that  when  he's  near  me,  when  he's 
in  my  company,  and  whether  or  not  I'm  speaking  to 
him,  I  feel  him.  He  seems  to  pick  out  all  the  good- 
ness that  is  in  a  man — and  all  the  badness.  Ye  mind 
how  quick  he  was  to  take  me  up  about  that  concession. 
I  don't  believe  that  he  saw  any  wrong  in  it.  There  is 
no  wrong  in  it.  It's  only  business.  But  I  fancy  that 
he  was  looking  ahead,  looking  past  the  time  when  the 
concession  was  mine,  and  thinking  of  all  the  disap- 
pointments that  might  come  to  me.  He  has  a  wonder- 
ful faculty — for  looking  far  ahead.  And  the  best  of 
Dick  Morrow,  if  you  take  him  as  a  missionary,  is  that 
he  never  bores  you  with  the  demands  of  his  calling. 


UNDEFINED  HOPES 139 

No,  Jean,  there's  something  very  human  about  Dick 
Morrow." 

He  paused,  and  returned  the  steady  look  she  was 
giving  him.  She  was  very  still;  she  didn't  appear  to 
be  breathing.  She  was  waiting. 

"Jean,"  he  said,  without  raising  his  voice  above  the 
quiet,  musing  tone  with  which  he  had  opened  the  con- 
versation, "I'm  more  than  glad  that  you  like  Dick, 
although  I  cannot  explain  exactly  why." 

"No,  Robert" — her  fingers  were  playing  fitfully  with 
the  while  fringe  of  her  blouse. 

"A  perfect  ladies'  man — and  so  gentle." 

"Very  gentle,  Robert." 

"And  broad-minded — although  he  annoyed  me  by 
his  preaching  on  the  coal  sermon.  .  .  .  What  did  you 
find  to  talk  about  to-day,  while  I  was  at  the  bridge  ?" 

"A  thousand  and  one  things.  I  don't  think  he  was 
feeling  too  brave  about  this  new  expedition." 

"Oh !  That's  because  you  don't  understand  Dick 
yet.  If  he  felt  that  he  was  really  needed  at  the  North 
Pole,  he'd  plug  ahead,  as  he  calls  it." 

"He'll  be  away  a  long  while." 

"Seven  months — I  was  careful  to  ask  him  that." 

"Why  should  you  ask  him  that,  Robert?"  Her 
voice  shook  a  little;  he  half  turned  in  his  chair,  and 
saw  how  it  was  with  her. 

"Why?"  he  echoed.  "Because  I  want  to  get  ahead 
with  the  coal  project  before  he  returns." 

"Ah!"  .  .  . 

"Fill  my  pipe,  Jean — there's  a  good  girl." 

She  filled  the  pipe  from  the  tobacco  jar  and  handed 


140  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

it  to  him.  He  fancied  that  her  fingers  trembled  as 
she  held  the  flame  of  the  match  to  the  bowl. 

"We  used  to  talk  a  great  deal  about  you,  Jean — 
Dick  and  I."  His  eyes  were  following  the  rings  of 
smoke  to  the  ceiling.  "I  believe — believe  that  he  was 
almost  in  love  with  you  before  he  set  eyes  on  you " 

"Robert !"    Her  face  reflected  the  pain  of  the  mind. 

His  eyes  were  still  following  the  drifting  smoke. 

"It  was  one  of  the  dearest  wishes  of  my  heart  at 
the  time."  He  stopped,  abruptly,  and  looked  across  at 
her.  "And  there's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't " 

"Robert !"  she  pleaded. 

"No  reason  whatever,  Jean" — now  he  was  leaning 
over  the  back  of  her  chair.  "He  spoke  to  you  before 
he  went  away?  You  can't  deny  it,  Jean.  I  saw  it  in 
your  eyes  when  you  came  down  the  hill  to  meet  me 
this  afternoon.  He  spoke  to  you,  Jean?" 

Slowly  she  raised  her  face  and  looked  at  him  as  he 
bent  over  the  chair. 

"Yes,  Robert,  he  did,"  she  said  in  a  whisper.  "I 
meant  to  tell  you  to-night  about  it.  I  gave  him  no 
answer." 

Anything  might  have  happened  in  the  minute  that 
followed.  An  ill-chosen  word  by  him  would  have  flung 
her  back,  a  crushed,  despairing  woman.  But  he  sprang 
from  behind  the  chair,  and  in  a  second  she  was  in  his 
arms. 

"Don't  tell  me  any  more,"  he  said,  laughingly,  and 
yet  there  was  a  break  in  the  laugh.  "Not  a  word, 
Jean.  I  understand,  and  I  tell  you  frankly  that,  if  all 
the  men  in  the  world  could  have  been  arrayed  before 
me,  only  to  Dick  Morrow  would  I  have  pointed  as  the 


UNDEFINED  HOPES  141 

one  man  likely  to  make  you  happy.  Jean,  I  have  never 
felt  so  full  of  contentment  as  I  do  now.  It  seems 
as  though  the  sky  had  suddenly  opened  to  let  the 
sun  stream  down  untrammeled  by  a  single  wisp  of 
cloud." 

"Rob,  man,"  she  sobbed,  and  pressed  her  face 
against  his  breast,  the  while  his  arms  tightened  around 
her  shoulders.  "Rob,  you  don't  know  what  you're 
saying." 

"I  do,  Jean.  I  tell  you  again,  there's  no  reason 
why  you  shouldn't  make  Dick  Morrow  as  happy — as 
happy  as  I  am  to-night.  And  there's  a  man  for  you, 
who  would  lay  down  his  very  life  to  give  the  woman 
he  loved  one  moment  of  pleasure.  Dick — Dick  is  a 
knight,  as  big  and  fine  as  any  knight  of  Elizabeth's 
time,  and  with  a  grander  temperament.  Oh !  you  lucky 
Jean!" 

She  struggled  to  free  herself. 

"Rob,  Rob!    For  God's  sake,  listen!" 

He  shook  her  playfully  by  the  shoulders. 

"I  shall  listen  to  nothing.  You're  going  to  be  happy, 
Jean,  and  if  you  allow  one  thought  to  interfere  with 
your  happiness  I  shall  call  you  ungrateful.  I'll — I'll 
send  you  back  home.  I  will !  And  I'll  go  on  building 
this  old  railway  alone." 

"Rob !    You're  forgetting " 

"I'm  forgetting  nothing.  It's  you  who  have  to  for- 
get." 

"What  was  it  that  I  said  to  you,  Robert,  last  night  ? 
He's  too  good  a  man  to  be  lied  to." 

"And  what  did  I  say  to  you,  Jean?    He's  too  good 


142  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

not  to  understand  if  he  were  told  the  truth.  You've 
promised  him,  Jean?" 

"Nothing,  Robert." 

"Ay,  but  was  it  a  nothing  that  meant  everything?" 

"Robert,  let  me  go  to  my  room.  My  heart's 
just " 

"You  shall  go  to  your  room,  Jean,  after  you've 
looked  me  straight  in  the  eyes  and  shown  me  the  truth. 
Now,  Jean?"  And  he  held  her  from  him,  and  com- 
pelled her  to  look  up. 

And  before  her  head  could  droop  to  the  bidding  of 
her  heart,  he  had  pressed  his  hands  on  her  cheeks  and 
kissed  her  on  the  brow. 

"Then,  to  bed  with  you,  Jean,  and  no  more  tears, 
no  more  doubtings,  no  more  looking  for  clouds  when 
there's  only  the  sun  in  the  sky.  Lie  to  him?  No, 
we'll  not  lie  to  him.  I'll  talk  to  Dick  Morrow.  If 
Dick  is  as  big-hearted  and  noble  as  he  used  to  be,  I 
know  what  his  answer  will  be.  There,  Jean!  Awa' 
wi'  ye." 

With  a  little  cry  of  pain  and  joy  commingled  she 
flung  her  arms  around  his  neck,  crying:  "Robert, 
man,  ye  bear  burdens  so  lightly!" 

"Well,  Jean,  aren't  my  shoulders  broad  enough?" 
And  he  stretched  himself  to  his  full  height,  then 
picked  her  up  as  though  she  were  a  child  and  carried 
her  to  the  door.  And  when  he  heard  the  customary 
call,  "Good-night,"  from  her  little  room,  he  went  back 
to  the  table  in  the  dining-room,  turned  the  shaded 
lamp  very  low,  and  said  very  softly  and  to  himself : 

"I  could  bear  the  burden  even  more  lightly,  Mar- 
garet, if  only  I  knew  that  you  understood." 


GOD  S  PLEASURE 

THERE  is  nothing  like  work  for  keeping  the 
mind  free  from  morbid  and  depressing 
thoughts.  With  right  good  will  Robert  applied 
himself  to  his  labors,  and  in  the  few  weeks  immedi- 
ately following  the  departure  of  Richard  Morrow,  he 
succeeded  in  convincing  Jean  that  his  heart  was  at 
perfect  peace.  Night  after  night,  in  the  silence  of  the 
bungalow  on  the  hill,  he  gave  himself  up  to  a  study 
of  the  potentialities  that  might  have  to  be  combated  in 
the  further  work  that  lay  before  him,  and  when  these 
tended  to  weary,  he  gave  up  an  hour  or  two  to  some 
of  the  crude  drawings  that  came  by  every  mail  from 
the  little  father  at  home,  who  was  certain  that  a  for- 
tune was  contained  in  each  one.  On  these  nights,  Jean 
sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  reading  or  writing, 
and  there  was  always  half  an  hour  before  retiring  for 
the  night  when  they  found  joy  in  recounting  the  inci- 
dents of  their  childhood.  Seldom  did  he  mention  Dick 
Morrow,  and  then  only  to  wonder  how  he  was  man- 
aging among  the  people  to  whom  he  had  dedicated 
his  life;  he  never  broached  the  subject  that  was  con- 
stantly in  her  mind,  in  spite  of  the  smiling  eyes  she 
turned  upon  him. 

And  then  trouble  occurred  among  the  natives  en- 
143 


144  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

gaged  on  the  railway.  As  Dick  Morrow  had  prophe- 
sied, the  laborer  was  beginning  to  realize  that  he  was 
worthy  of  his  hire;  and  at  a  time  when  every  hour 
was  of  supreme  value  because  of  the  approach  of  the 
high  tides,  they  rebelled  against  the  shortage  of  labor 
and  the  excessive  hours  they  were  asked  to  work. 
Yuchi  brought  the  news ;  it  was  something  so  new  and 
startling  to  him  that  he  almost  alarmed  Robert  with 
his  forebodings.  Jean  was  less  susceptible;  for  some 
time  she  had  closely  identified  herself  with  the  bridge- 
building,  and  by  organizing  small  nursing-camps 
among  the  women  and  children,  and  assisting  in  a 
hundred  ways  to  make  their  life  possible,  had  endeared 
herself  to  them.  For  three  days  the  men  held  back 
from  work;  for  Yuchi  they  expressed  supreme  con- 
tempt; for  Robert  they  had  but  an  expressive  shrug 
of  the  shoulders.  But  Jean  impressed  them;  they 
could  not  associate  her  with  gain  at  their  expense,  and 
when  the  women  added  their  pleas  to  hers,  the  work 
was  resumed.  It  was  a  triumph  for  which  Robert  gave 
her  the  fullest  credit,  and,  in  a  way,  the  influence  which 
she  had  been  able  to  exert  strengthened  in  her  certain 
hopes  and  ambitions  which  Richard  Morrow  had  in- 
spired. 

At  last,  the  work  was  completed.  Robert  went 
down  to  Tokio,  leaving  Jean  in  the  bungalow  with  her 
servants  for  several  days.  When  he  returned,  it  was 
with  news  which  he  hoped  would  lessen  the  Shadow 
that  both  of  them  were  dreading  in  secret. 

"Jean,  my  bonnie  girl,"  he  cried,  as  he  ran  lightly 
up  the  veranda  steps,  "we're  striking  camp  at  once. 
[Three  months'  rest  in  Nagasaki,  where  I'm  to  report 


GOD'S  PLEASURE I4S 

on  a  new  scheme.  Don't  ask  me  the  nature  of  it;  I 
don't  know  it  myself  yet.  The  orders  are  there,  await- 
ing me.  But  it's  a  big  thing,  and  if  all  the  promises 
are  fulfilled  we  shall  have  that  signboard  up  on  the 
banks  of  the  Thames  before  we're  many  years  older." 

They  went  to  Nagasaki,  and  it  was  there,  a  month 
later,  that  the  Shadow  came  and  passed,  leaving  in 
their  care  a  girl-child  from  out  of  whose  eyes  Jean 
looked — and  smiled. 

And  Robert,  who  had  awaited  this  evidence  of  God's 
pleasure  as  one  awaiting  the  silver  and  gold  of  dawn 
after  the  long  night — awaited  it  in  the  stillness  of  the 
garden  behind  the  bungalow — in  the  stillness  of  the 
Eastern  night,  when  the  imagination  is  attuned  to  the 
romance  of  the  diamond-studded  Vault,  sighed,  softly, 
"God  be  good  to  ye,  Jean — my  little  sister,"  then  as 
softly  Petitioned. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

THE  BURDEN-BEARER 

THEY  stayed  in  Nagasaki  only  three  months,  and 
who  shall  attempt  to  describe  those  months 
and  what  they  held  for  Robert  MacWhinnie  ? 
They  were  going  back  to  Kobe,  thence  to  Tokio,  where 
they  were   to   meet  officials,   and    (this   news   came 
through  the  capital,  and  reached  them  after  many 
weeks)  Richard  Morrow! 

"There's  always  something  to  be  done — some- 
where," he  had  written  in  his  scrawling  hand,  "and  as 
I  shall  have  only  a  week  in  Tokio  I  must  see  as  much 
of  you  and  Jean  as  possible.  They  tell  me  that  the 
Sendai  task  is  finished.  Don't  develop  swelled,  head, 
and  race  back  to  England  with  your  belt  well-lined ; 
there  may  come  an  earthquake  to  crumble  everything 
that  you've  done,  and  it  may  be  necessary  to  start  it 
all  over  again.  Blame  the  heat  and  the  trying  work  in 
this  swamp  of  a  place  for  the  strain  of  pessimism. 
We've  had  a  rough  time  of  it  here,  and  little  Murgat- 
royd,  the  only  other  white  in  the  district,  went  under 
at  the  end  of  the  first  month.  And  here  am  I,  as 
strong  and  healthy  as  ever — vulgarly  healthy,  in  fact, 
and  I'm  coming  down  to  Tokio  to  receive  all  the  re- 
ward. Pretty  rough  on  poor  Murgatroyd!  I'm  ar- 
ranging for  the  organization  of  a  band  of  white  work- 

146 


THE  BURDEN-BEARER  147 

ers  to  go  to — where  should  you  think? — Sendai,  or 
rather,  within  five  miles  of  the  town.  The  rice  harvest 
has  failed — floods  at  the  wrong  time  of  the  year — and 
what  with  starvation  conditions,  and  lack  of  spirit,  the 
natives  are  down  with  some  kind  of  disease.  The  Mis- 
sionary Society  is  doing  its  best,  but  we  want  twenty 
or  thirty  men  and  women  who  are  not  afraid  of  real 
hard  work  to  which  there  is  not  nearly  so  much  profit 
as  bridge-building." 

Before  leaving  Nagasaki,  Robert  and  Jean  fought 
out  the  greatest  issue  between  them.  He  compelled 
her  to  sit  down,  and  urged  her  to  keep  silence  while 
he  "laid  down  the  law,"  as  he  put  it ;  he,  himself,  paced 
to  and  fro  while  he  was  speaking. 

"Jean,"  he  said,  "you  have  shown  wonderful  cour- 
age during  the  months  you  have  been  out  here — cour- 
age I  never  thought  a  woman  was  capable  of.  And 
now,  you  are  to  be  tested  even  more  severely.  I  prom- 
ised you  that" — his  voice  wavered  slightly — "that  I 
would  speak  to  Dick  Morrow.  I  will — when  the  right 
time  comes.  Dick  is  too  good  to  be  lied  to — even  as 
you  said.  Well,  I'll  test  Dick's  goodness — again,  when 
the  right  time  comes.  But  until  then" — he  came  up 
to  her  and  folded  his  arms  around  her  neck — "until 
then,  my  bonnie  sister,  the  child  is  mine — mine !  Don't 
speak"  (she  had  clutched  at  his  hands).  "It's  not  the 
idea  of  a  moment;  it's  been  in  my  head  for  months, 
and  I've  wrestled  with  it  from  every  point  of  view. 
Try  to  be  brave,  Jean.  I  know  that  your  heart  is  nigh 
to  bursting ;  I  know  what  you  are  just  dying  to  cry  out. 
But  keep  quiet  till  I'm  through  with  it.  God  never 
meant  you  to  suffer  for  what  has  happened;  there's 


148  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

work  for  you  in  this  world — somewhere.  And  you'll 
do  it.  Once,  you  said  to  me  that  I  had  been  lying  all 
along — that  I  had  been  pretending  to  be  happy. 
Whatever  truth  there  was  in  it  then,  I  swear  to  you 
that  never  in  my  life  was  I  so  happy  as  I  am  now. 
It's  just  as  though  a  mission  I  had  set  my  heart  on 
was  nearing  its  completion.  The  child  is  mine — for 
the  time  being.  You  may  protest,  plead,  or  do  any- 
thing you  please,  but  did  you  ever  know  me  to  be 
turned  from  anything  on  which  I  had  set  my  heart? 
There's  something  else.  If  it's  in  your  mind  that  you 
can  turn  me  from  this  purpose,  I'll  show  you  some- 
thing that  ought  to  convince  you  of  the  impossibility. 
It's  too  late.  Read  that." 

From  a  wallet  he  took  a  newspaper  cutting,  and 
handed  it  to  her. 

"That  was  mailed  to  the  home  papers  the  night  after 
the  little  one  came  to — to  fill  my  life." 

She  read  it  aloud,  while  he  remained  with  his  arms 
around  her  neck.  It  was  an  obituary  notice. 

"DOLORES,  the  wife  of  Robert  MacWhinnie,  at  Nagasaki, 
September — childbirth." 

'That's  a  part  of  the  lie  I  told  Dick  Morrow,"  he 
said  in  a  whisper ;  "he  believed  that  she  was  at  Naga- 
saki while  you  and  I  were  at  Sendai.  .  .  .  It's  not 
easy  to  lie,  Jean." 

She  was  ready  to  fight,  but  he  had  anticipated  every 
mood. 

"It's  not  the  idea  of  a  moment,"  he  repeated.  "It 
came  to  me  that  night  when  we  sat  together  in — in 


THE  BURDEN-BEARER  U9 

dear  old  'Charity  Corner.'  And  I'm  going  on  with 
it — for  your  dear  sake,  for  Dick's  sake,  for  my  own 
sake." 

Jean  held  her  peace,  but  not  through  selfishness. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

A   TEST — AND  A   DISAPPOINTMENT 

IT  was  the  same  old  Richard  Morrow  that  greeted 
them  when  they  reached  the  capital.  A  little 
thinner,  perhaps,  and  with  tiny  white  channels 
running  from  the  corners  of  the  eyes — Jean  could  vis- 
ualize him  peering  through  the  heat-waves  of  the  in- 
terior— but  the  same  Dick  in  spirits.  He  was  full  of 
enthusiasm  for  his  new  project,  and  as  eager  to  get 
back  to  work  as  a  natural  fighter  to  the  firing  line. 
He  had  been  in  the  city  only  a  few  hours  when  they 
arrived,  but  he  had  struggled  through  an  amazing 
amount  of  work.  He  had  seen  everybody  who  was 
anybody,  he  said,  and  scores  who  were  nobodies ;  and 
the  greatest  triumph  to  his  credit  as  the  result  of  the 
morning's  work  was  that  Lady  Chiseldon,  the  widow 
of  an  ex-consul,  had  volunteered  to  take  charge  of  any 
nursing  mission  that  should  be  formed. 

The  greeting  between  the  two  men  was  what  might 
have  been  expected  of  them.  Morrow's  first  words 
were  of  condolence,  but  it  required  no  warning  from 
Robert  to  show  him  that  the  right  way  to  sympathize 
is  to  point  to  the  sun,  not  to  turn  one's  back  upon  it. 
Jean  didn't  overhear  the  words  that  passed  between 
them  when  first  they  met  in  the  vestibule  of  the  hotel 
in  Tokio,  and  when  she  joined  them  they  were  both 

150 


A  TEST— AND  A  DISAPPOINTMENT     151 

laughing  and  jesting  as  though  the  whole  world  were 
nothing  but  a  playground. 

That  afternoon,  Jean  went  with  Dick  Morrow  to 
the  house  of  Lady  Chiseldon,  Robert  being  summoned 
to  the  residence  of  the  minister  for  railways.  The 
three  dined  together  in  the  hotel  at  night,  and  Jean 
left  them  immediately  after  dinner. 

"She  is  like  me,"  said  Robert,  with  a  light  laugh; 
"she  must  always  be  doing  something.  We  have  been 
here  only  a  day,  and  yet  she  is  as  anxious  as  I  am 
to  be  up  and  doing." 

"I  was  afraid  that  I  should  get  back  too  late,"  said 
Dick,  flicking  the  ash  from  his  cigar  and  keeping  his 
eyes  down. 

"I  don't  follow  you,"  said  Robert. 

"The  last  few  months  have  been  very  successful, 
haven't  they  ?" 

"Very,"  Robert  admitted.  "More  successful  than 
ever  I  imagined." 

"Ah!"  Dick  sighed,  "I  had  visions  of  your  sailing 
before  I  had  time  to  get  across  the  country — sailing 
with  your  belt  full." 

"It  will  be  many  a  long  year  before  I  leave  this 
country,"  said  Robert,  "and  when  I  go,  it  will  not  be 
like  a  thief  in  the  night.  Did  you  ever  think  of  re- 
turning?" 

"Why  should  I  ?"  Dick  asked.  "What  is  there  for 
me  in  England?" 

"I  should  think  that  there's  many  a  niche  that  you 
could  fill  admirably." 

"I  don't  know  the  right  end  of  a  hammer,  and  I 


152  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

should  be  a  hopeless  failure  in  any  business  you  could 
think  of." 

"We'll  talk  about  that  some  day,"  said  Robert 
quietly.  "The  thing  is,  what  are  you  going  to  do  now  ? 
What's  this  new  project  of  yours?  Where  are  you 
going?  And  how  long  are  you  going  to  be  away? 
And  aren't  you  tired  of  shuffling  through  swamps 
without  hope  of  any  higher  reward  than  a  pile  of 
stones'  with  a  rude  cross  thrust  in  the  middle  when 
you're  gone?" 

"Success,"  said  Dick  with  a  smile,  "has  a  deplorable 
tendency  to  develop  gloominess  in  a  man." 

"I'm  not  gloomy,"  said  Robert,  with  a  smile  of  pro- 
test; "I  have  no  reason  to  be.  But  I'm  getting  more 
practical  every  day,  Dick.  I  believe  that  I'm  begin- 
ning to  set  a  right  value  on  my  brains." 

"Money-grubber !" 

"Rubbish.  I  don't  want  money  so  much  as  I  want 
power.  I  assure  you,  Dick,  I  have  scores  of  ideas, 
each  one  of  which  is  full  of  possibilities.  When  I  get 
back  to  the  old  country — if  I  should  go  back — I'm 
going  to  exploit  those  ideas,  and  with  the  experience  I 
have  gained  I  shall  be  able  to  teach  some  of  the  old 
fogeys  at  home  that  old-fashioned  methods  cannot 
hope  to  live  when  the  new  come  thrusting  in.  Come 
up  to  my  room,  and  we'll  talk  it  over." 

But  even  after  they  were  comfortably  settled  in  the 
private  room,  no  more  was  said  about  Robert's  plans 
for  the  future.  Dick  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"There  are  twenty  of  us  going  out  on  this  trip,"  he 
said,  "and  it's  going  to  be  a  real  adventure.  I  wish 


A  TEST— AND  A  DISAPPOINTMENT    153 

you  could  forget  your  old  work,  Robert,  and  come 
with  us." 

"To  Sendai?" 

"As  I  told  you,  it  is  about  five  miles  out.  There 
are  four  or  five  villages  all  lumped  together.  And  we 
want  money  badly  for  the  organizing  of  the  expedi- 
tion." 

"How  much?" 

"Five  thousand  yen  at  the  very  least." 

"What's  the  Government  doing?" 

"That's  in  addition  to  what  the  Government  has 
done  already." 

"Do  you  expect  to  get  it  in  a  week?" 

"If  the  country  wasn't  in  such  a  bankrupt  condition, 
I  should  have  no  difficulty  in  raising  it  in  two  days." 

"Why  should  you  interest  yourself  in  these  beg- 
gars? Why  do  you  give  up  your  life  to  the  natives, 
who  probably  don't  appreciate  it  ?  I've  never  argued 
with  you  on  this  point,  Dick,  but  I  think  you  know 
what  my  feelings  are.  My  boy,  you  ought  to  live  on 
the  banks  of  the  Thames  for  a  year  or  so;  then  you'd 
understand  the  meaning  of  poverty  and  want.  One  of 
these  days,  you'll  get  back  to  England,  and  you'll  rea- 
lize that  there's  enough  work  there  not  only  for  you, 
but  for  every  missionary  that  ever  went  out  into  the 
colonies." 

"Two  years  ago,"  said  Dick,  with  mock  reproach, 
"Robert  MacWhinnie  would  have  stumped  through 
the  foreign  quarters  of  half  a  dozen  countries  with  me 
in  order  to  raise  five  thousand  yen  for  such  a  project 
as  we're  embarking  on  now.  Money's  spoiling  you, 
Robert." 


154  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Not  in  the  slightest,"  Robert  retorted.  "I  heard 
this  morning  that  you  needed  that  five  thousand  yen. 
You're  staying  with  the  same  people  at  Tskijui,  aren't 
you?  You'll  find  a  cheque  for  five  thousand  there 
when  you  get  back." 

Dick  Morrow  didn't  give  way  to  an  outburst  of 
gratitude.  He  knew  his  man.  All  that  he  said  was : 
"Five  thousand  won't  delay  the  erection  of  that  sign- 
board a  single  day,  Robert."  Then  he  lit  a  fresh 
cigar,  and  puffed  slowly  the  while  his  big  blue  eyes 
were  narrowly  scrutinizing  Robert's  face. 

"Has  Jean  said  anything  to  you  ?"  he  inquired  pres- 
ently. 

Robert  gave  him  a  rapid  glance. 

"What  about?"  he  asked,  without  pretending  to  be 
more  than  ordinarily  interested. 

"She  went  with  me  this  afternoon  to  see  Lady 
Chiseldon,  who  is  to  take  charge  of  the  nurses.  Her 
ladyship  made  a  great  fuss  of  Jean." 

Robert  simply  nodded,  as  though  it  were  only  what 
one  might  expect. 

"And  she  asked  Jean  what  I  didn't  dare  ask." 

Robert  took  the  cigar  from  between  his  lips  and 
waited  expectantly.  Dick  rose  from  his  chair,  and 
said,  with  some  warmth : 

"Robert,  old  fellow,  don't  get  it  into  your  head  that 
I've  been  trying  to  influence  your  sister.  I  haven't, 
because  I  know  the  risks." 

"You  want  her  to  go  out  with  this  party  ?" 

Dick  nodded. 

"Have  you  spoken  to  her?" 

"I  didn't  say  a  word.     Lady  Chiseldon  did  all  the 


A  TEST— AND  A  DISAPPOINTMENT    155 

talking.  And  Jean — she  told  me  that  ever  since  I  was 
with  you  in  Sendai  it  had  been  a  big  hope  in  her  heart. 
Not  only  is  she  willing,  she's  anxious  to  go.  And  I'll 
be  frank  with  you,  Robert.  If  she  were  there,  it 
would  make  a  great  deal  of  difference  to — to  me.  I 
want  to  talk  to  you  about  that." 

Robert  took  a  turn  around  the  room.  When  he 
came  to  a  halt  his  back  was  turned  to  Dick. 

"I'm  ready  to  listen  to  anything  you  have  to  say, 
Dick,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  hardly  audible. 

"If  I  told  you  that  the  last  few  months  would  have 
broken  me  entirely  if  it  hadn't  been  for  her — for  mem- 
ories of  her — what  would  you  say?" 

"Jean  is  my  sister,  Dick,  and  you're  one  of  the  best 
friends  I  ever  had  in  my  life.  Why  don't  you  speak 
plainly?" 

"There's  only  one  reason  why  I  hesitate,"  said  Dick, 
dropping  his  voice;  "is  it  fair  to  talk  of  such  things 
when  at  this  moment  you  yourself  are  suffering " 

"I  think  I  asked  you  to  say  no  more  about  that." 

"All  right,  Robert.  I  understand.  Then  let  me  go 
on.  Am  I  worthy  of  your  sister?" 

"I  know  of  none  worthier." 

"Have  you  guessed — have  you  seen — that  I  love 
Jean?" 

"My  mind  has  been  too  full  of  other  things.  Be- 
sides, I  can  never  think  of  Jean  as  being  other  than  a 
girl.  We  have  been  close  friends  from  childhood,  and 
I  believe  that  if  she  went  away  from  me  now,  it  would 
be  like  losing.  .  .  .  But  have  you  spoken  to  Jean 
herself?" 


156  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Yes  and  no,"  said  Dick.  "I  wanted  your  permis- 
sion." 

"And  supposing  she  said  yes,  what  would  be  your 
intentions  ?" 

"This  work  at  Sendai  must  be  finished  first." 

Robert  remained  silent  for  a  while.  This  man  near 
him  was  the  last  in  the  world  that  he  would  wrong 
by  so  much  as  a  word,  but  he  had  to  fight  for  Jean 
as  hard  as  he  would  fight  for  the  honor  of  Richard 
Morrow. 

"Look  here,  Dick,"  he  said,  with  sudden  warmth, 
"you  and  I  will  come  to  a  bargain  over  this  matter, 
and  we  won't  consult  Jean  at  all.  If  it  is  her  wish, 
she  shall  go  to  Sendai,  and  you  shall  promise  me  that, 
if  personally  or  by  influence  I  can  do  anything  for  the 
proper  equipment  of  the  expedition — in  addition  to 
what  has  been  done — you  will  let  me  know." 

"I  will,"  said  Dick,  with  enthusiasm. 

"And  you  will  not  say  anything  to  Jean  about — 
well,  you  know  what — until  you're  through  with 
this?" 

"I  promise.  She  will  be  in  Lady  Chiseldon's  charge. 
And  you,  Robert?" 

"I  shall  be  here  for  a  long  while  yet.  When  you 
come  back  we  can  talk  this  matter  over  again." 

"And  you're  satisfied,  Robert?  I'm  a  penniless  beg- 
gar with  nothing  but  my  work  before  me,  but  I  know 
that  I  could  do  big  things  out  here  if  I  had  the  love 
and  sympathy  of  a  woman  like  Jean." 

Robert  grasped  the  extended  hand. 

"Money  could  make  no  difference  to  Dick  Morrow," 
he  said.  "You'd  always  be  the  same." 


A  TEST— AND  A  DISAPPOINTMENT     157 

He  handed  him  a  box  of  cigars. 

"I  was  going  to  write  to  you  last  month,"  he  said, 
slowly,  as  he  regained  his  chair,  "but,  of  course,  I  had 
no  idea  where  you  were,  or  how  to  get  a  letter 
through." 

"Nothing  to  do  with  coal,  I  hope?" — with  a  whim- 
sical smile. 

"Nothing,"  said  Robert.  "It  was  a  letter  that  came 
to  me  from  a  man  who  needed  better  advice  than  I 
could  give  him." 

"And  you  thought  my  poor  advice  would  be  of 
use?" 

"I  was  certain  of  it  at  the  time,  because  of  your 
profession;  and  you're  a  very  broad-minded  man, 
Dick.  I  think  you  know  enough  of  the  world  to  be 
able  to  give  what  I  might  call  a  mature  judgment." 

"Was  he  in  trouble?" 

"Yes,  very  serious  trouble.  This  was  the  case :  He 
was  in  love  with  a  woman,  and  at  the  last  moment 
she  made  a  confession  to  him.  .  .  .  You've  dropped 
the  ash  on  your  knee.  .  .  .  Don't  give  me  your  an- 
swer in  a  hurry,  Dick,  because  I  don't  want  to  send 
this  man  a  hastily  considered  judgment,  because  I 
know  he'll  take  it  to  heart.  I  don't  think  I  would  have 
asked  anyone  but  you.  This  woman  made  a  confes- 
sion. There  was  a  child.  Are  you  listening,  Dick?" 

"Intently." 

"The  other  man  was  dead.  Now,  what  would  be 
your  attitude  in  such  a  case?" 

There  was  no  spontaneous  outburst  of  generosity 
as  Robert  expected.  Dick  lay  back  in  his  chair  and 
smoked  hard  for  a  few  minutes  before  replying. 


158  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"You  mean  to  ask  me  if  the  existence  of  the  child 
would  make  any  difference  in  my  affection  for  the 
woman?  No,  Robert,  it  wouldn't — not  if  I  loved 
the  woman  deeply;  but  it  is  a  more  abstruse  problem 
than  you  yourself  seem  to  think  it." 

"How,  abstruse?"  And  Robert's  brows  were  over- 
shadowed. 

"You  and  I  could  settle  it  m  a  second,"  said  Dick. 
"Neither  you  nor  I  would  allow  a  thing  like  that  to 
interfere.  But  there's  the  world  to  consider." 

"Hang  the  world !  .  .  .  I  beg  your  pardon,  Dick. 
But  I  always  thought  you  were  so  broad-minded." 

"I  hope  I  am,"  said  Dick.  "Surely  that  point 
doesn't  arise." 

"Then,  why  should  you  consider  the  world?  Why 
should  you  trouble  your  head  about  what  the  world 
might  think?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Dick,  "it's  because  I  haven't  had 
much  experience ;  or,  again,  it  may  be  that  I  have  had 
too  much.  Still,  there's  no  reason  why  you  and  I 
shouldn't  give  this  young  man  the  best  of  our  advice." 

"I'm  writing  by  the  next  mail.  I  want  your  advice." 

"If  he  loves  this  woman,  and  she  loves  him,  and 
if  her  love  for  him  is  so  great  that  she  is  willing  to 
make  a  sacrifice,  I  should  say  the  best  thing  to  do 
would  be  to  let  the  child  go  away,  to  be  placed  in 
the  care  of  someone  whom  they  both  of  them  could 
trust.  They  might  watch  over  the  child  with  almost 
as  much  care  as  if  it  were  under  their  own  roof. 
That's  all  I  can  say." 

"I  had  almost  decided  to  send  him  such  a  reply,'* 
said  Robert  quietly. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

SANCTUARY 

IN  the  north,  so  it  is  said,  they  grow  men;  in  the 
south  they  grow  trees.  Mr.  John  Drender,  head 
of  the  firm  of  Drender,  Masters  and  Company, 
would  rather  have  sacrificed  his  Northumbrian  burr 
— strong  as  ever,  even  after  twenty  or  thirty  years  of 
Thames-side  toil — than  have  confessed  to  injured 
pride  when  Robert  MacWhinnie  offered  him  the 
greatest  slight  the  human  heart  can  receive.  Mar- 
garet was  as  proud  as  her  father;  by  no  sign  did 
she  convey  to  him  how  deep  was  her  wound,  but  he 
understood,  and  wisely  held  his  peace.  The  name, 
MacWhinnie,  dropped  out  of  their  conversations  after 
the  day  when  Robert  and  his  sister  sailed  for  the  Far 
East;  when  she  received  Robert's  letter  from  Colombo, 
Margaret  was  tempted  to  take  the  grizzled  old  iron- 
master into  her  confidence,  but  in  the  end  she  let  well 
alone,  fearing  to  betray  her  innermost  feelings  by  tell- 
ing him  of  a  hope  that  might  not  be  realized.  Masked 
by  rugged  lines  and  that  beloved  burr,  John  Drender 
hid  from  her  the  pain  in  his  own  heart.  Even  when 
he  came  upon  the  obituary  notice  in  the  Times: 
"Dolores,  the  wife  of  Robert  MacWhinnie  .  .  ."he 
merely  glanced  at  it  a  second  time  and  idly  turned 
over  the  page.  He  said  nothing  about  it  to  Margaret 

159 


160  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

that  night ;  but  he  found  a  copy  of  another  newspaper 
in  the  house  with  a  cut  from  its  obituary  column,  and 
though  she  laughed  and  sang  that  night  as  never  be- 
fore, he  could  feel  the  sobs  that  were  tearing  her. 

Six  weeks  after  the  conversation  between  Robert 
and  his  friend  Dick  Morrow  in  the  hotel  at  Tokio, 
the  half-yearly  meeting  of  Drender,  Masters  and  Com- 
pany was  held.  The  old  ironmaster  went  to  Jarrow- 
side  that  night  with  beetling  brows,  and  lips  tightly 
compressed.  And  yet  the  evening  newspapers  were 
able  to  inform  the  readers  of  the  financial  news  that 
the  half-yearly  report  of  Drender,  Masters  and  Com- 
pany was  a  strong  answer  to  those  who  were  ever  be- 
wailing the  decaying  industries  of  the  country. 

Margaret  was  in  the  garden  when  her  father  came 
through  the  gateway.  She  threaded  the  stem  of  a 
flower  into  the  lapel  of  his  coat  and  slipped  an  arm 
through  his. 

"We'll  have  dinner  first,  father,"  she  whispered 
coaxingly,  "and  then  you  shall  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"You've  an  observant  eye,  Margaret." 

"You  frown  so  terribly.  If  a  contract  had  been 
lost  you-  couldn't  show  your  disappointment  more 
plainly." 

"It's  not  a  contract  lost,  it's  a  contract  offered " 

He  stopped,  as  though  ashamed  of  his  ill-temper.  Not 
for  the  first  time,  he  saw  a  film  as  of  sadness  creeping 
over  her  dark  eyes.  She  seemed  always  to  be  nerving 
herself  for  a  further  blow.  He  drove  the  angry  light 
from  his  own,  tenderly  patted  the  white  hand  that 
was  resting  on  his  arm,  and  playfully  hurried  her 
toward  the  house. 


SANCTUARY  161 


"Dinner,  Margaret,  my  little  housekeeper,  and  then 
we'll  have  a  crack.  By  the  lord  Harry !  but  the  Tyne- 
side'll  have  something  to  sharpen  their  teeth  on  to-mor- 
row, when  they  read  the  report  of  Drender  and  Mas- 
ters! Up  ten  thousand  on  the  corresponding  half- 
year.  What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"Splendid!    Splendid!" 

"Ay,  and  friend  Masters  is  strutting  about  like  a 
dawg  with  a  tin  tail.  Talks  about  taking  his  bit  wife 
to  Mentone  for  a  holiday,  as  if  the  poor  body  isn't 
just  wearying  for  a  sight  of  Durham.  Masters  hasn't 
taken  a  holiday  for  ten  years." 

"I  know  someone  else  who  hasn't  been  away  from 
the  Thames  for  fifteen  years,"  she  put  in  slyly. 

"Hoots,  hinny,"  he  chided,  "isn't  every  day  a  holi- 
day at  Jarrowside?  Would  you  have  me  roaming 
about  the  country  like  a  commercial  traveler?" 

"You'll  never  be  different,  father,"  she  said,  laugh- 
ingly, and  as  they  reached  the  hall  she  began  to  remove 
the  knitted  scarf  and  the  "chimney-pot"  hat.  His 
newspapers  of  the  day,  which  always  he  brought  back 
from  the  office,  were  thrown  on  the  hall  stand.  She 
gave  him  ten  minutes  to  prepare  for  dinner.  .  .  . 

"Coffee — and  a  pipe — and  you,  my  lass." 

He  dragged  the  heavy  divan  chair  toward  the  fire; 
she  sat  at  his  feet  and  charged  the  massive  bowl  with 
the  strongest-flavored  tobacco  the  south  could  pro- 
vide. 

"Now  for  the  trouble,  father."  She  tapped  his  knee 
with  the  pipe. 

He  shook  his  gray  head  deprecatingly. 


162  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Hoots,  hinny,  it's  nothing  at  all.  The  dinner's  done 
me  good." 

"You'll  get  hungry  again" — insinuatingly. 

"What  a  body  you  are,  Margaret.  Nothing  else' 11 
satisfy  you,  I  suppose?" 

"Nothing.  If  you  keep  a  trouble  to  yourself  you're 
ill  for  days." 

"It's  about  MacWhinnie — Robert  MacWhinnie." 

"Oh!"  She  turned  her  head  quickly,  and  stared  at 
the  firebars. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go  on?"  he  asked,  sympa- 
thetically. 

"Why  shouldn't  you?" 

He  stooped  and  brushed  her  hair  with  his  rough- 
grained  hand. 

"Ay,  why  shouldn't  I,  my  lass?"  he  said  softly. 
"His  name  came  up  at  the  meeting  to-day.  He  had 
written  to  the  firm — 'his  old  firm,'  as  he  had  the  impu- 
dence to  call  it." 

"Father!  What  are  you  saying?"  She  had  swung 
round ;  her  cheeks  aflame. 

John  Drender  nodded  reassuringly. 

"It  was  the  tone  of  his  letter  that  nettled  me,"  he 
told  her.  "He  was  in  a  position  to  'confer'  a  contract 
on  Drender  and  Masters — to  confer  it  in  the  name  of 
the  Government  he  represented." 

She  had  turned  back  to  the  fire. 

"Why  should  you  take  umbrage  at  that  ?"  she  asked 
in  a  whisper,  and  it  was  well  that  he  could  not  see 
the  quivering  of  her  lips. 

"There  was  a  smack  about  the  letter  that  I  didn't 
like."  He  grabbed  at  the  match-box  on  the  smoking- 


SANCTUARY  163 


table  near  him,  and  viciously  struck  a  match  against 
the  side  of  the  pipe-bowl. 

"You  would  find  in  the  letter  just  what  your  mind 
was  anxious  to  find — you'd  probably  find  more  than 
was  written  there,  or  intended  to  be  written."  She 
spoke  half  to  herself — eager  to  defend  him  even  now. 

"It  was  patronizing.    Masters  saw  it  before  I  did." 

"Mr.  Masters  doesn't  know  Robert  MacWhinnie." 

"He  knows  enough  of  the  family,  anyway,  Mar- 
garet— enough  to  last  him  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 
That  fool,  Thomas " 

"You  told  me  that  he  left  the  works  some  time 
ago." 

"So  he  did,  but  he  was  safer  inside  than  out.  We 
paid  six  claims  for  compensation  last  week — minor 
injuries  that  would  have  been  laughed  at  by  the  men 
themselves  if  he  hadn't  put  the  devil  into  their  minds." 

She  made  no  reply  to  that,  but  continued  to  stare 
at  the  firebars,  as  though  in  the  dull  embers  she  were 
visualizing  the  scene. 

"Margaret" — he  ran  the  side  of  his  forefinger  across 
the  gray  mustache — "I'm  sorry  I  said  that  about  young 
Robert  a  minute  ago.  I'm  sorry  for  the  lad.  Some- 
how— somehow  I  fancy  he'd  have  had  a  bigger  chance 
if  he'd  been  the  fool  instead  of  the  brainy  one  of  the 
family.  I  thought  like  that  the  other  day  when  I  saw 
his  two  younger  brothers  sauntering  past  the  yard  and 
trying  to  put  a  sneer  on  as  the  men  went  out  for 
their  dinner  hour.  And  it  was  as  much  as  I  could 
do  to  keep  myself  from  going  up  to  them  and  lacing 
them  for  a  couple  of  young  vagabonds." 


164  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"What  business  was  it  of  yours,  Mr.  John  Dren- 
der?" 

"True,  true,  Margaret,  but,  you  see,  I  kind  of 
brought  up  young  Robert — he  said  as  much  in  his 
letter.  .  .  .  Ay,  ay,  Robert  MacWhinnie,  I'll  take 
back  a  deal  of  what  I  said  just  now.  .  .  .  They're 
living  on  him,  Margaret — that's  my  opinion,  but  I 
suppose  he  knows  what  he's  about.  .  .  .  Margaret, 
you  knew  that  he  had  married  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  quickly,  and  though  she  turned 
a  brave  face  upward,  he  could  not  fail  to  mark  the 
gathering  of  the  tears.  "I  wrote  to  him." 

"You  wrote  to  him?" 

"A  letter  of  condolence." 

His  pipe  had  gone  out  again.  He  struck  another 
match,  and  just  before  applying  the  flame  to  the 
tobacco — 

"So  did  I,"  he  said  softly. 

And  then,  silence  again,  save  his  steady  pulling  at 
the  briar  pipe.  Of  a  sudden,  he  leaned  fonvard  and 
drew  her  head  backward  so  that  he  might  look  into 
her  eyes. 

"Hinny,"  he  said  fondly,  "I'm  afraid  I'm  getting 
old — and  selfish." 

"Selfish!"  she  smiled. 

"I  was  wondering,  to-day,  what  I  should  do  without 
you— that's  all." 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  pushed  the  gray  hair  back 
from  his  temples. 

"You're  not  going  to  get  rid  of  me  as  easily  as  all 
that,"  she  said  laughingly. 

"Ah!  you're  a  wonderful  little  woman,  Margaret," 


SANCTUARY  165 


and  he  patted  the  cheek  that  was  pressed  against  his 
own.  .  .  .  "Up  ten  thousand  on  the  previous  half- 
year — did  you  catch  that?  And  every  penny's  yours 
when  I'm  gone.  .  .  .  Margaret,  I  wish  I  hadn't  said 
that  of  young  MacWhinnie." 

A  shadow  rested  on  her  face  for  a  second. 

"He'll  forgive  you,  I'm  sure,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of 
voice  that  pleaded  for  the  end  of  the  subject. 

"He's  made  wonderful  headway  out  there." 

'We  always  said  that  he  would." 

"We  did,  Margaret — we  did.  And  he  couldn't  for- 
get the  old  firm — could  he?  If  we  hadn't  been  full 
up  with  contracts  at  the  moment,  the  chances  are  that 
I  shouldn't  have  misread  that  letter  of  his.  It  was 
the  'in  a  position  to  confer'  that  I  didn't  like,  although 
I  can  guess  the  official  eye  was  on  him  while  he  was 
writing.  .  .  .  Margaret,  my  lass,  let's  have  the 
'nightcap,'  and  away  I'll  go  to  my  roost.  We're  test- 
ing the  boilers  of  a  cruiser,  first  thing  to-morrow 
morning,  and  if  John  Drender  isn't  there,  the  beg- 
gars'll  scamp  the  job,  and  bang  goes  the  reputation  of 
the  firm." 

Margaret  brought  the  decanter  from  the  sideboard, 
and  he  filled  his  glass. 

"Here's  luck  to  you,  Robert  MacWhinnie."  he  said, 
shaking  his  head.  "You  didn't  forget  the  old  firm — 
did  you?  I'll  not  forget  you  for  that.  The  luck's 
coming  your  way,  or  I'm  a  Dutchman." 

And  about  the  same  time,  twelve  thousand  miles 
away,  Robert  MacWhinnie  was  seated  at  a  table,  his 
head  resting  on  his  outstretched  arms,  his  shoulders 


166  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

shaking  with  sobs.     The  letter  crushed  in  his  right 
hand  was  from  Dick  Morrow: 

"Robert,  old  friend,  my  heart  is  nigh  breaking,  and  as  I 
think  of  you  reading  this  letter  I  am  torn  with  grief.  My 
poor  Jean  is  gone.  She  died  this  morning — died  in  my 
arms,  after  only  a  few  hours  of  suffering.  All  day  yester- 
day she  was  at  work  with  Lady  Chiseldon  and  two  other 
nurses;  she  came  back  to  headquarters  complaining  only  of 
slight  fatigue;  this  morning,  Lady  Chiseldon  summoned  me. 
I  saw,  at  once,  that  my  brave  Jean  had  contracted  the 
scourge  which  we  came  here  to  fight.  We  did  all  we  possibly 
could,  but  succeeded  only  in  lessening  the  pain.  Robert,  I 
cannot  write  more.  It  is  as  though  the  roof  of  the  world 
had  fallen  upon  me.  May  God  help  you  to  bear  the  blow, 
even  as  I  pray  for  strength.  As  soon  as  I  can  get  away, 
I  shall  hurry  to  Tokio  to  see  you. 

"DICK." 


PART  TWO 
CHAPTER   I 

THE  PILLAR  OF  THE  HOUSE 

MORI,  the  child,  was  nearly  ten  years  of  age, 
and  for  two  years  she  had  been  watching  the 
fairy  stories  come  true — stories  told  her  be- 
neath the  cherry  blossom  from  which  she  had  stolen 
the  pink  and  white  of  her  cheeks,  among  the  chrysan- 
themums where  the  elves  had  wandered  to  find  the 
right  shade  of  bronze  and  the  wave  for  her  hair, 
among  the  iris  that  had  spared  a  little  of  their  won- 
drous blue  for  the  coloring  of  her  big  eyes.  The 
great  house  had  arisen  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames, 
just  as  he  had  said  it  would;  the  garden  sloped  to  the 
very  edge  of  the  water,  and  there  was  the  pagoda  of 
her  baby  dreams,  from  which  she  could  watch  the 
silent  flitting  of  the  brown  sails  as  they  headed  toward 
the  open  sea. 

And  half  a  mile  farther  down  the  river  bank  were 
the  engineering  works  of  MacWhinnie  Brothers,  with 
a  massive  signboard  over  the  gates.  The  firm  had 
been  established  two  years.  When  Robert  MacWhin- 
nie returned  from  the  Far  East,  eight  years  after  the 
death  of  his  sister,  Jean,  he  took  over  a  going  concern 

167 


168  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

from  a  company  that  had  fallen  behind  the  times,  and, 
with  his  two  brothers,  James  and  David,  as  junior 
partners,  commenced  by  brushing  the  cobwebs  from 
the  corners  of  the  yard,  installing  new  machinery  and 
instituting  new  methods. 

"It'll  be  tough  work  for  the  first  two  years,"  he 
had  warned  them,  "but  once  we  are  firmly  established, 
there'll  be  no  holding  of  us  back." 

The  same  generous  disposition,  the  same  manly 
striving  to  march  straight  forward  as  though  there 
had  never  been  a  doubt  in  his  heart  or  a  speck  to 
mar  his  sky ;  the  temples  were  grayer,  a  few  more  lines 
ran  away  from  the  corners  of  the  clear,  resolute  eyes 
and  the  determined  mouth ;  but  there  was  even  greater 
energy  in  the  throw  of  the  broad  shoulders,  a  stronger 
and  more  resonant  ring  in  the  voice.  Ambition  had 
not  been  checked  by  the  burden  imposed  on  him,  rather 
had  it  received  a  spur.  Mori,  the  child,  had  opened 
out  before  his  eyes  a  new  world  of  which  he  had 
never  dreamed  until  she  came;  she  almost — almost 
filled  his  life  with  her  quaint  imaginings  and  the  ful- 
ness of  her  joy  in  his  love.  The  eight  years  in  the 
Eastern  hemisphere  had  been  wonder  years,  with  new 
phases  revealing  themselves  each  succeeding  day. 

No  need  to  dwell  on  the  homecoming.  The  chance 
had  occurred  to  take  over  the  affairs  of  the  old  com- 
pany, and  it  wasn't  likely  that  a  similar  chance  would 
occur  for  years.  The  fact  that  the  firm  of  Drender, 
Masters  and  Co.  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  river, 
no  more  than  a  mile  away,  was  not  to  be  considered. 
This  was  the  chance,  and — and  the  child  had  reached 
an  age  when  Western  environment  was  essential.  It 


THE  PILLAR  OF  THE  HOUSE          169 

was  for  the  child  that  he  had  to  live  now ;  but  it  wasn't 
a  burden ;  he  had  come  to  regard  it  as  the  reward. 

It  was  half  an  hour  before  dinner,  and  he  had  just 
changed  "from  a  snow  man  into  a  cosy  daddy."  Mori 
came  to  the  study  and  locked  the  door  so  that  the 
governess  should  not  interrupt ;  she  settled  the  cushions 
in  the  big  easy  chair,  and  "snuggled  in"  with  him. 
This  was  the  fairy  hour  that  had  never  been  forgotten 
or  put  aside  for  other  things  since  she  was  three  years 
old.  It  was  the  hour  when  the  joy  of  possession,  of 
guardianship,  drove  everything  else  from  his  mind — 
the  hour  of  stories  for  which  she  would  never  be  too 
old.  .  .  .  He  had  drawn  the  curtains  aside  so  that 
she  could  watch  the  snow  falling  through  the  beam  of 
light  thrown  across  the  grounds  by  the  great  lamp  over 
the  hall  door,  and,  "You  start  it,  darling,"  he  whis- 
pered, pressing  his  cheek  against  hers. 

"You're  not  too  tired,  are  you,  daddy?" 

"I'm  never  too  tired,  Mori,  darling,  but  you  start 
it.  What  has  it  to  be,  to-night?" 

"One  day,  daddy >" 

"One  day?"  he  echoed  softly. 

"One  day,  there  was  a  man,  and  his  name  was " 

"And  his  name  was  Morrow.  Ah!  yes,  you  love 
that  old  story,  don't  you?  Well,  this  man  Morrow 
had  traveled  all  over  the  world,  all  over  the  seas  and 
the  mountains,  among  the  snow  where  all  the  houses 
were  made  of  ice  and  the  children  went  to  school  on 
sleighs ;  among  the  black  men  near  the  Equator,  where 
it  was  so  hot  that  he  could  boil  his  kettle  by  setting  it 
down  in  the  sun.  He  was  a  splendid  fellow,  always 
laughing  and  trying  to  make  other  people  laugh, 


170  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

and " 


adventures  that  made  her  big  eyes  sparkle,  the  while 
she  "snuggled"  closer. 

And  on  this  night  there  was  a  new  story  to  add 
to  the  old  ones;  the  hero  of  them  all  had  suddenly 
emerged  from  a  dark  corner  of  the  world;  he  had 
written  to  say  that  before  many  months  had  passed 
he  might  have  crossed  the  ocean  and  arrived  in  Eng- 
land. Robert  read  portions  of  the  letter  to  the  de- 
lighted child : 

"And  tell  my  little  sweetheart,  O  Mori  San,  that  all  these 
lone  years  I  have  been  watching  her  grow  up,  watching 
from  afar.  She  was  only  three  years  old  when  last  I  kissed 
her  on  the  Bluff  at  Yokohama,  but  I  seem  to  know  exactly 
how  tall  she  is,  the  particular  shade  of  her  curls,  the  length 
of  her  nose — it  must  be  freckled,  or  I  shall  be  keenly  dis- 
appointed— and  the  color  of  her  eyes.  And  tell  her,  daddy, 
that  I'm  bringing  her  a  wonderful  piece  of  ivory  carving, 
carved  by  an  old  blind  Filipino ;  and  there's  a  tiger-skin  rug, 
and  a  boa  constrictor  that  took  such  a  fancy  to  me  that  he 
wanted  to  hug  me  until  I  hadn't  any  breath  left  to  say 
'Thank  you !'  Tell  her,  daddy,  that  she  mustn't  pretend  not 
to  understand  when  I  speak  to  her  in  Japanese,  or  how  to 
blow  out  the  match  when  my  tobacco  is  well  alight." 

And  Mori,  shaking  her  head  sagely,  protested  again 
and  again  that  she  hadn't  forgotten  a  single  feature. 

"He  was  very  fond  of  you,  Mori,  darling,"  Robert 
told  her,  with  a  little  break  in  his  voice,  "so  fond  of 
you  that  when  he  stayed  with  us  in  the  bungalow  just 
before  starting  for  the  Philippines,  I  had  to  lie  awake 
at  night  fearing  that  he  would  carry  you  off  if  I  closed 
my  eyes  for  an  hour." 

And  the  stories  being  told,  he  rang  for  the  govern- 


THE  PILLAR  OF  THE  HOUSE          171 

ess;  there  was  the  usual  plea  for  just  one  more,  and 
the  usual  reply  that  grandfather  would  never  forgive 
her  for  keeping  him  from  his  dinner. 

Donald  MacWhinnie,  alert  as  ever,  although  the 
tinge  of  red  had  almost  disappeared  from  the  short, 
pointed  beard,  was  already  seated  at  the  table  in  the 
long,  oak-paneled  dining  room.  He  heard  the  "Good 
nights"  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  the  sound  of  the 
tender  kisses  as  Mori  wound  her  arms  around  Rob- 
ert's neck,  and  he  called  out  his  promises  of  a  "better 
story  than  daddy  can  tell  ye,  if  ye  wait  till  the  morn'." 
As  Robert  came  into  the  dining  room,  the  little  father 
gave  him  a  sympathetic  nod. 

"A  wonderfu'  comfort,  bairns,  Rob?"  he  said 
gently. 

"Wonderful."  He  was  slipping  the  ring  from  his 
serviette. 

"Fill  your  life  just  when  you're — when  you're  be- 
ginning to  think  that  there's  naethin'  left  that's  worth 
while."  He  was  approaching  the  tragedy  of  "Dolores," 
and  Robert  was  quick  to  divert  the  trend  of  conversa- 
tion. 

"Been  down  to  the  works  to-day,  father?" 

"I  just  looked  in,  Rob."     • 

Robert  smiled.  He  knew  that  never  a  day  passed 
without  a  visit  being  paid  by  the  little  gray-haired 
father  who  had  come  into  his  own,  as  always  he  had 
said  he  would. 

"Just  looked  in,"  he  repeated  musingly,  "an'  had  a 
bit  crack  wi'  that  new  manager  o'  yours." 

"MacGowan?" 

"I  didna  ask  his  name;  I  asked  him  his  job." 


172  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"A  first-class  man,  father.  He  served  his  time  with 
Drender  and  Masters." 

"I  dinna  doubt  it,  Rob;  I'd  hae  thought  mair  of 
him  if  he'd  sarved  it  on  the  Clyde." 

From  which  Robert  gathered  that  MacGowan  had 
placed  a  difficulty  in  the  way  of  a  model  being  made 
for  Mr.  Donald  MacWhinnie,  inventor.  They  had 
almost  finished  dinner  before  the  little  man  spoke 
again,  although  his  eyes  had  constantly  sought 
Robert's. 

"Ye  havena  been  in  the  yard  yoursel',  Rob?" 

"No,"  said  Robert  casually;  "I  had  business  in  the 
city." 

"Contracts?" 

"Yes;  rather  important  ones.  I  left  David  in 
charge." 

The  father  sighed;  then  rested  an  elbow  on  the 
table. 

"Did  the  little  maid  say  onythin'  about — about 
Tammas — 'Uncle  Tammas?"  he  inquired. 

Robert  looked  up  quickly. 

"Nothing  at  all.    What  do  you  mean,  father?" 

"He  was  here,  to-day." 

"Here!    In  my  house?" 

Donald's  face  straightened. 

"Ye  hae  no  objection,  Rob  ?    He's  your  brither." 

Robert  laughed  at  the  suggestion. 

"My  dear  father,"  he  said,  "my  only  regret  is  that 
I  wasn't  here  to  give  him  a  welcome.  It's  the  first 
time  Thomas  has  paid  us  a  call." 

"There's  nae  need  for  a'  the  regrets,  Rob,"  said  the 


THE  PILLAR  OF  THE  HOUSE          173 

little  man,  with  a  shake  of  the  head.  "Tammas  didna 
come  wi'  ony  olive-branch  in  his  hand." 

Robert's  face  assumed  a  serious  expression. 

"Why  should  he  come  in  any  other  spirit?"  he 
asked. 

"No  reason  at  a' ;  but  ye  know  what  Tammas  is,  or 
ought  to  by  this  time.  In  all  my  life  I've  never  met 
a  man  sae  discontented.  And  he's  my  ain  son,  too. 
Tammas  is  a'  looking  for  trouble,  an'  he's  a'  findin'  it. 
I'm  no  so  sure  that  his  marriage  did  a'  we  hoped  it 
would." 

"But  surely  Thomas  hasn't  very  much  to  be  discon- 
tented about?" 

Donald  lifted  his  shoulders  expressively. 

"Ah,  weel !"  he  said,  "ye  can  bet  she'll  help  him  to 
find  somethin'." 

"Did  he  bring  his  wife  with  him?" 

"She  followed  him  in — followed  him  in." 

Robert  frowned,  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  closed 
the  door.  He  went  back  to  the  fireplace,  and  stood 
with  his  shoulders  leaning  against  the  mantelshelf. 

"What  did  you  mean  by  asking  if  Mori  had  said 
anything,  father?" 

The  little  man  flicked  his  beard  with  the  tip  of  a 
finger  before  replying. 

"Because  Mori  was  here  when  he  cam';  that's  a'; 
and  Maggie  had  a  word  wi'  the  bairn — just  a  friendly 
word,  Rob.  Said  she  ought  to  feel  that  she  was  a 
lucky  bairn,  an'  a'  the  rest  of  it.  Ye  know  how  a 
jealous  woman  havers  when  she  thinks  another  body's 
bairns  are  better  off  than  her  ain?" 


174  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Robert's  eyes  were  half  closed,  and  the  little  father 
seemed  unwilling  to  look  up. 

"Mori  didn't  say  a  word  about  it  to  me,"  said  Rob- 
ert, in  a  perplexed  tone  of  voice.  "I  wonder  why?" 

"Mebbe,"  said  Donald,  "it  was  because  I  asked  her 
to  say  naethin'  about  it." 

"Father" — Robert's  frown  had  deepened — "I  hope 
you  will  never  do  anything  of  the  sort  again.  Mori 
has  never  been  taught  to  keep  anything  from  me.  .  .  . 
Now,  let  me  hear  about  Thomas's  trouble.  I  under- 
stood that  he  was  doing  splendidly  with  his  dairy 
farm." 

Donald's  laugh  began  like  wind  escaping  through  a 
distant  keyhole. 

"Tammas  is  done  wi'  coos,"  he  said,  "an'  it's  nae 
mair  than  I  expected.  Ye  should  hae  kept  him  at 
the  lathe,  Rob.  Ye  gave  him  too  much  time  to  think 
aboot  ither  things." 

"He  was  asked  to  say  what  appealed  most  to  him," 
said  Robert,  somewhat  impatiently,  "and  he  confessed 
that  his  heart  wasn't  in  machinery.  He  wanted  the 
open  air — ''God's  free  air,'  were  his  words ;  to  be  con- 
fined in  such  a  business  as  ours  at  the  yard  represented 
slavery  to  him." 

"Ay,  mebbe.    But  he's  sold  the  business,  anyway." 

"It  cost  three  thousand,  all  told." 

"Wi'  every  modern  invention.  I  dinna  doubt  ye 
for  a  moment.  An'  I'll  wager  he  didna  get  half  the 
amount  for  it.'* 

Robert  made  no  inquiry  about  the  whereabouts  of 
the  money,  although  every  penny  had  come  out  of  his 
own  pocket. 


THE  PILLAR  OF  THE  HOUSE          175 

"And  now?"  he  asked. 

"Tammas  has  achieved  the  ambition  of  his  life," 
said  the  little  man ;  "he's  joined  politics — a  paid  man, 
if  ye  please — paid  for  speech-makin' — an'  inspecting 
the  conditions  of  labor.  That's  how  he  put  it — put  it 
to  me,  Rob.  What  do  ye  think  of  that?  'Ye're  a 
comparatively  young  man,'  he  said,  'an'  there's  plenty 
of  work  for  you  to  do  if  you  feel  like  doin'  it.' 
'Thanks,  Tarn/  I  said,  'but  I'm  awf'y  comfortable  here 
wi'  Rob,  an'  naethin'  short  of  a  stick  of  dynamite'll 
get  me  out.'  'This  is  not  your  place,'  he  said;  'you 
should  be  in  your  ain  house  along  wi'  mither.'  'That's 
all  right,  Tarn,'  I  said.  'Your  mither  is  quite  happy 
in  the  house  that  Rob  had  built  for  her  at  Ballyhoustie, 
where  she  can  lord  it  over  her  neighbors;  her  sym- 
pathies are  no  wi'  engineers,  and  my  hairt  is  just  sair 
wi'oot  them.  That's  why  I'm  here  instead  o'  vegetat- 
ing at  Ballyhoustie;  the  booming  an'  the  hammering 
on  the  river  is  meat  and  drink  to  me,  and  I'm  tired  of 
running  between  Ballyhoustie  and  Rob's  house  like  a 
dog  humping  round  a  strange  kennel.  Seems  to  me, 
Tammas/  I  said,  'that  I  no  sooner  get  a  chair  warmed 
in  ane  hoose  or  th'  ither,  but  what  someone  comes 
along  tae  push  me  oot  o'  it.' ' 

Robert  was  very  moody  for  a  moment;  then  he  said, 
with  deep  regret  in  his  voice : 

"I'm  very  sorry  this  should  have  happened.  I  had 
come  to  believe  that  we  had  done  our  best  for  every- 
body." 

"An'  so  we  hae,"  said  Donald,  content  to  take  some 
share  of  the  credit.  "Frae  the  very  first,  Rob,  we've 
considered  the  ithers,  instead  of  considering  ourselves 


176  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

a  little  mair.  But  don't  tak'  this  to  hairt.  Let  Tammas 
gae  his  ain  gait.  And  it's  no  Tammas  so  much  as 
Mrs.  Tammas." 

Robert  held  up  his  hand  reproachfully. 

"You  mustn't  blame  her,  father,"  he  said.  "I've 
seen  her  only  twice,  but  she  gave  me  the  impression 
of  being  a  very  simple-minded  and  worthy  woman." 

"It's  the  simple-minded  anes,  Rob,  that  ye  have  tae 
keep  y'r  eye  on.  The  way  she  was  talkin'  tae  the  little 
maid !  Why  shouldna  ye  keep  a  governess  ?  It's  y'r 
ain  money,  an'  y'r  ain  child.  Why  shouldna  you  have 
her  taught  paintin'  an'  music  an'  a'  the  rest  of  it? 
You  dinna  ask  them  tae  pay  the  piper,  do  ye?  An'  if 
ye've  been  clever  enough  to  mak'  it  possible  for  her 
tae  be  brought  up  as  a  lady,  who  should  stand  up  an' 
protest  agin  it?  Now,  if  it  were  somebody  else's  child 
that  ye  were  wastin'  y'r  money  on,  they  might  hae 
something  tae  grumble  about.  An'  ye  are  makin'  a 
lady  of  her,  Robert.  The  way  she  ups  and  says: 
'Grand faither,  that's  no  grammar.'  'Grandfaither,  ye 
shouldna  eat  wi'  y'r  knife.'  'Ye  shouldna  light  y'r 
cigar  twice.'  The  little  rascal !  She'll  be  a  gran'  lady 
some  day,  Rob.  And,  man,  I'm  tellin'  ye,  when  I  was 
your  age  an'  younger,  I  wad  hae  gi'en  the  wor-rld  to 
hae  been  able  to  do  for  my  lass  what  ye  are  doin'  for 
yours.  Don't  let  this  Tammas  business  upset  ye.  I 
dinna  ken  why  he  cam'  down  here,  unless  it  was  at  the 
bidding  o'  that  wife  o'  his.  I  always  said  that  Tam- 
mas wad  mak'  a  mistake,  an'  so  he  has.  God  be 
thankit  that  neither  Jamie  nor  David  hae  offended 
agin  their  faither  by  marryin'  beneath  them.  I  dinna 
suppose  either  o'  them  will  ever  get  marrit.  They're 


THE  PILLAR  OF  THE  HOUSE         177 

no  given  that  way.  An'  I  tremble,  Rob,  when  I  think 
what  y'r  mither  wad  do  if  onything  happened  to  Tam- 
mas's  wife.  There  wadna  be  a  single  soul  left  for 
her  tae  quarrel  wi'." 

Robert  paid  little  attention  to  the  old  man's  ram- 
blings.  He  was  wondering  what  had  actually  been 
said  to  the  child,  and  he  felt  it  keenly  that  anyone 
should  go  out  of  their  way  to  teach  her  to  keep  any- 
thing from  him.  Apparently  Donald  divined  what 
was  passing  in  his  son's  mind,  for,  lowering  his  voice, 
he  said : 

"There  was  nae  mention,  Rob,  o'  the  bairn's  mither, 
so  dinna  let  that  disturb  you.  A'  that  Tammas's  wife 
said — a'  that  you  could  tak'  ony  exception  tae — was 
her  reference  tae  John  Drender's  daughter;  an'  I  dinna 
see  how  that  had  onything  to  do  wi'  her.  An'  what's 
mair,  I  dinna  suppose  that  onythin'  she  or  Tammas 
might  say  wad  stay  on  John  Drender's  mind  ony 
longer  than  water  wad  stay  on  a  duck's  back." 

"After  all  these  years,"  said  Robert,  infusing  a  little 
bitterness  into  his  voice,  "they  might  allow  Mr.  Dren- 
der's name  to  rest." 

"Exactly  what  I  said,  Rob.  It  was  a  matter  for 
y'rsel',  no  for  them." 

"I  don't  follow  you,  father." 

The  little  man  fidgeted  with  his  beard. 

"What  I  mean  is,"  he  said  falteringly,  "that  what 
happened  between  you  and  John  Drender's  daughter 
didna  affect  them  in  the  slightest.  Probably  they'd 
hae  been  nae  better  off  if  you  were  John  Drender's 
son-in-law  to-day." 

Robert  crossed  from  the  fireplace  to  the  table,  and 


178  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

placed  his  hand  on  his  father's  shoulder.  Speaking 
very  gently — almost  entreatingly — he  said  to  him: 

"I  thought  it  was  agreed  between  us,  father,  that 
no  further  mention  should  be  made  in  this  house  of 
Miss  Drender.  I  say  again  I  am  deeply  sorry  that 
Thomas  and  his  wife  should  have  come  here  in  my 
absence  and  said  anything  that  would  lend  false  im- 
pressions to  my  little  girl.  I  thought  that  everything 
was  going  along  so  smoothly.  And  only  to-night  I 
was  telling  Mori  of  a  great  joy  that  was  coming  to  us 
— the  return  of  an  old  friend  whom  I  had  given  up 
for  dead.  When  I  came  in  to  dinner  to-night,  I  was 
feeling  like  a  boy,  instead  of  an  old  man  of  thirty- 
seven  ;  but  what  you've  told  me  seems  to  have  damped 
my  spirits.  Understand  me  rightly,  father,  for  you 
may  have  an  opportunity  of  meeting  Thomas  before 
long.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  live  for  my  little 
girl.  My  life,  although  it  has  been  successful,  as  you 
like  to  say,  has  not  been  so  full  of  happiness  that  I 
can  afford  to  lose  one  smile  of  Mori's;  and  to  teach 
her  to  hide  things  from  me  would  be  the  crudest 
reward  that  either  Thomas  or  anyone  else  could  con- 
ceive. If  I  thought  that  the  foolish  jealousies  of 
which  you  spoke  a  moment  ago  actually  existed,  I 
should  be  tempted  to  close  the  doors  of  my  house.  Do 
you  quite  understand?" 

"Quite,"  said  the  little  man.  .  .  .  "Ye're  no  greet- 
in',  are  ye,  Rob?  If  I'd  thought  you'd  tak'  it  like  this, 
I'd  hae  said  naethin'  about  it." 

"I'm  trying  to  take  it  in  the  right  way,"  said  Robert, 
"and  while  we're  in  this  mood  and  on  this  subject, 
we'll  deal  with  another  matter,  which  may  appear 


THE  PILLAR  OF  THE  HOUSE         179 

trivial  to  you;  but  I  fancy  that  when  I've  expressed 
my  feelings  on  it,  you'll  see  how  wrong  it  was,  and 
how  undignified." 

"It's  my  turn  now,  Rob,  I  suppose?"  said  the  little 
man.  "Mebbe  ye  want  tae  git  rid  o'  me?  Say  the 
wor-rd,  an'  I'm  off  to  Ballyhoustie  before  ye  know 
whaur  ye  are.  But  how  I  should  get  along  wi'oot  th* 
wee  maid  to  talk  tae,  I  dinna  ken." 

Robert  patted  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"I  don't  want  to  get  rid  of  you,  father.  I  like  you 
to  be  here.  I  like  to  feel  that  you're  happy,  and  that 
you  have  no  responsibilities  to  weigh  you  down.  But 
I've  heard  from  two  or  three  sources  that  you  can't 
allow  your  old  antipathy  to  Drender  and  Masters  to 
die  down." 

Donald  sat  bolt  upright  in  his  chair,  and  the  small 
eyes  flashed  indignantly. 

"What  wad  ye  hae  me  do,  Rob?"  he  asked.  "Tak' 
off  ma  hat  when  Mr.  John  Drender  rolls  by  in  his 
carriage  ?  Wad  ye  hae  me  do  that  ?" 

"Not  if  Mr.  John  Drender  didn't  remove  his  hat 
to  you,"  said  Robert.  "But,  knowing  him  as  I  do,  and 
feeling,  as  I  do,  that  he  takes  some  little  pride  in 
having  given  Robert  MacWhinnie  his  start  in  life,  I 
doubt  that  he  would  forget  that  courtesy." 

"Man,  what  a  tradesman  ye  mak'!  If  ye  were  in 
the  grocery  line,  ye'd  hang  out  a  sign  that  the  goods  o' 
the  man  on  the  ither  side  o'  the  street  were  better  than 
your  ain." 

"And  that's  another  fallacy  that  you  must  get  out 
of  your  mind,  father.  I  have  noticed  that  both  David 
and  Jamie  encourage  it,  but  it's  wrong.  Drender  and 


180  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Masters  are  not  rivals  of  MacWhinnie  Brothers,  al- 
though we  are  engineers  even  as  they.  But  their  work 
is  of  a  totally  different  nature.  They  cover  phases  of 
engineering  work  which  we  do  not  touch.  But  the 
point  I  was  coming  to :  I  have  heard  of  your  haunting 
the  gates  of  Drender  and  Masters  about  the  time  the 
workmen  are  coming  out.  I  don't  believe  that  you've 
ever  said  anything  that  was  uncalled  for,  but  the  mere 
fact  of  your  being  there  is  not  to  the  credit  of  our  firm. 
And  I  hear,  too,  that  on  several  occasions  you  have 
patronized — shall  I  say? — Drender  and  Masters,  by 
giving  them  commissions  to  execute  some  model  or 
other." 

The  little  man  laughed  softly  to  himself. 

"Bless  ye,  Rob,"  he  said,  "I  hae  naethin'  but  kind- 
ness in  my  hairt  for  John  Drender,  an'  if  I've  waited 
outside  his  works  so  that  he  should  see  me  wi'  a  cigar 
in  my  mouth  and  comfort  in  my  body,  it  was  just  be- 
cause I  wanted  tae  show  him  what  a  clever  son  I  had. 
And,  Robert,  if  ye  were  my  age,  an'  if  ye'd  led  the 
hard  life  I've  led,  ye'd  understand  the  wonder fu'  joy 
I  get  out  of  walking  up  to  the  gates  of  Drender  and 
Masters  a  minute  after  the  time  when,  as  a  younger 
man,  I  was  supposed  to  be  on  the  lathe — walkin'  up 
tae  them,  and  walkin'  back,  an'  saying  to  masel'  (al- 
though, mebbe,  the  gatekeeper  might  overhear  me),  'I 
dinna  think  I'll  come  in  to-day,  Mr.  Drender.  I'm 
takin'  a  holiday.' " 

"All  right,"  said  Robert.  "I'm  more  than  pleased 
to  find  that  there's  no  malice  at  the  bottom  of  it  all. 
There's  room  on  this  river  for  both  Drender  and  Mas- 
ters and  MacY/hinnie  Brothers ;  and  I  may  assure  you, 


THE  PILLAR  OF  THE  HOUSE          181 

father,  that  I  regard  the  old  firm  with  the  deepest  of 
respect.  I'm  proud  to  think  that  it  was  from  that 
yard  I  set  out  for  the  Far  East.  I'm  grateful,  and  al- 
ways shall  be,  for  the  splendid  opportunities  which 
John  Drender  went  out  of  his  way  to  give  me." 

"The  old  man  is  ageing,"  Donald  interrupted,  in  a 
conciliatory  manner.  "I  always  had  a  profound  re- 
spect for  John  Drender  masel'.  But  that's  neither 
here  nor  there.  They  tell  me,  Rob,  they  tell  me  that 
the  old  man  doesna  expect  to  hae  control  of  the  yard 
very  much  longer." 

"That's  news  to  me,"  said  Robert. 

"What  I  mean  is  that  he's  no  as  active  as  he  used 
to  be.  We  a'  hae  to  go  some  time  or  ither." 

"He's  the  halest  man  on  the  river,  father.  Only 
yesterday  I  saw  him,  in  the  distance,  superintending 
the  setting  of  a  propeller  blade." 

"An'  cussin'  an'  swearin',  I'll  be  bound." 

"There  you  go  again,  father." 

"Ay,  Rob,  but  the  old  man  was  always  sae  interest- 
in'  when  he  was  cussin'  an'  swearin'.  Larned  it  on 
the  Tyne,  he  did,  an'  it's  the  ane  thing  a  Clyde  man 
envies  in  a  Tynesider.  But  I  believe  there's  some- 
thing in  what  I'm  tellin'  on  ye,  that  he's  no  long  for 
this  wor-rld.  Else,  wad  he  be  content  tae  let  his 
daughter  gi'e  so  much  o'  her  time  to  charity  an'  that- 
like?  There  was  a  time  when  he  couldna  bear  her 
out  o'  his  sight,  but  now  it  seems  the  right  thing  for 
her  to  be  awa'  on  church  work,  or  nursing,  or  ony- 
thin'  that'll  wipe  out  some  o'  the  sins  o'  her  old  faither 
agin  the  time  when  he'll  hae  to  answer  for  them." 

"Miss  Drender  is  doing  a  very  noble  work,  father," 


182  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

said  Robert  earnestly,  "and  I  don't  doubt  that  her 
father  has  encouraged  it.  Only  the  other  day  the 
Bishop  paid  a  high  tribute  to  the  work  that  Miss 
Drender  has  done  in  the  slums.  It  was  she  who  or- 
ganized the  Nursing  Society.  She's  given  up  the 
whole  of  her  life  to  the  helping  of  the  poor,  and  that 
without  any  promise  of  reward." 

"She's  a  fine  woman,"  said  the  old  man,  nodding 
his  head,  "and  God  forbid  that  Donald  MacWhinnie 
should  ever  say  onythin'  to  her  detriment.  .  .  .  An* 
she  does  get  the  money  out  o'  the  stony  anes,  Rob. 
She  must  hae  raised  some  thousands  of  pounds  for 
these  funds  of  hers." 

"She  is  tireless  in  her  work,"  said  Robert,  and  for 
an  instant  his  eyes  glowed. 

"Ay,"  said  the  old  man.  "And  for  his  ain  sake  I 
hope  John  Drender  isna  allowed  to  handle  them." 

"Father,"  said  Robert  quietly,  "I'm  beginning  to 
fear  that  you  live  too  near  Drender  and  Masters." 

"But  she's  a  fine  woman,  Rob,"  said  the  old  man, 
swerving  dexterously  away,  "an'  when  I  pass  her  in 
the  street  I'm  a-feelin'  like  greetin'." 

"Why,  father?" 

"Such  a  waste,  Rob !  There's  a  woman  for  ye !"  he 
sighed.  "An'  when  I  think  o'  the  Maggie  Drummonds 
.  .  .  Rob,  ye've  been  awf'y  blunt  wi'  me.  I'll  be  blunt 
wi'  ye,  just  for  ance.  There  never  was  an'  never  will 
be  another  man  like  ye,  an'  if  I  thought  that  it  wad  be 
for  your  benefit,  I'd  give  up  this  old  carcass  as  willin' 
as  willin'.  But  somehow  I  dinna  think  I  shall  ever 
forgi'e  ye  for  leaving  Margaret." 


THE  PILLAR  OF  THE  HOUSE          183 

Robert  turned  to  the  cigar  cabinet,  so  that  his  father 
should  not  see  his  twitching  face. 

"We  must  have  an  early  interview  with  Thomas," 
he  called  over  his  shoulder,  affecting  brightness.  "We 
must  set  the  old  fellow's  mind  at  ease." 

"An5  that's  like  ye,  too,  Rob.  .  .  .  Thousands  of 
pounds  she  must  hae  raised  for  charity,  an*  on'y  yes- 
terday I  met  her  in  the  street,  an'  if  I'd  had  a  few 
coppers  they'd  hae  been  hers.  Smiled  that  nicely,  too, 
she  did,  same  as  we  were  old  friends.  That's  what  I 
like  aboot  her.  And  there  wasn't  a  dry  stitch  on  her. 
She'd  been  makin'  a  round  of  a'  the  collectors  for 
some  Christmas  fund  or  ither.  She  must  have  been 
dead  tired,  because  the  snow  was  lyin'  heavy,  but  there 
she  was,  carryin'  around  new  bills  for  the  collectors 
tae  paste  over  their  stalls.  'Only  a  Thousand  Pounds 
More  Required' — 'Only  Eight  Hundred  More' — 
'Only  Seven  Hundred  More.'  One  o'  the  little  women 
told  me  that  John  Drender's  daughter  came  round 
every  hour.  It's  for  a  new  nursing  home  or  somethin'. 
.  .  .  Are  ye  listenin'  tae  me,  Robert,  or  are  ye  count- 
in'  y'r  cigars?" 

"I'm  listening  to  every  word,  father." 

"They've  been  tryin'  tae  raise  five  thousand,  but" — 
with  a  touch  of  exultation — "they  didna  get  it.  They 
were  five  hundred  pounds  short  when  they  gi'ed  up 
the  collectin'  for  the  day.  .  .  .  What  was  it  ye  said 
about  Tammas?" 

"I  was  saying  that  we  must  get  hold  of  him  as  soon 
as  possible,  and  find  out  exactly  how  he  is  situated." 

"I'll  find  out  what  he's  done  wi'  the  money  that  he 
got  for  the  farm,"  said  Donald,  with  a  knowing  wink. 


184  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Like  as  not,  the  Drummond  brood  are  fattening  on 
it." 

When  the  old  man  had  retired  for  the  night,  Robert 
MacWhinnie  wrote  a  letter  to  his  bankers,  instructing 
them  to  send  anonymously  the  sum  of  five  hundred 
pounds  to  the  nursing  fund  organized  by  Miss  Mar- 
garet Drender.  And,  that  done,  he  made  the  round 
of  the  house,  as  was  his  custom,  then  slipped  noise- 
lessly into  Mori's  room  to  kiss  the  little  sleeper  before 
retiring  to  his  own  couch. 


CHAPTER   II 


"MACWHINNIE  BROTHERS" 


THE  opportunity  to  interview  Brother  Thomas 
did  not  occur  until  some  months  later,  and  then 
the  task  fell  to  Robert.  By  this  time,  the  little 
father  had  gone  north,  to  warm  another  chair  in  the 
house  at  Ballyhoustie,  which  had  been  one  of  Robert's 
first  considerations  when  he  became  a  man  of  means. 
These  visits  to  the  north  were  never  of  very  long  dura- 
tion, for  the  changed  conditions  of  life  had  brought 
but  little  sobered  sweetness  to  Mrs.  MacWhinnie.  The 
old  neighbors  whom  she  had  hoped  to  impress  with 
the  greatness  of  her  sons  had  offered  no  opening  for 
such  impressions.  They  had  drifted  from  her,  or, 
rather,  from  the  changed  Mrs.  MacWhinnie ;  they  had 
known  her  as  a  hard-working,  companionable  body  in 
the  old  days.  Indeed,  the  new  environment  had  im- 
posed so  many  penalties  that  she  was  unable  rightly 
to  appreciate  the  privileges. 

It  was  in  the  late  afternoon  when  Robert  received 
word  that  Mr.  Thomas  MacWhinnie  was  awaiting  him 
in  the  office.  At  the  time,  Robert  was  stripped  to  the 
waist  in  the  engine  room,  and  as  grimy  as  any  of  the 
engineers  gathered  about  him.  The  trouble  with  the 
mechanism  was  hard  to  locate,  and  three  valuable 
hours  had  been  spent  by  the  senior  partner  of  the  firm, 

185 


186  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

who  would  have  stayed  there  all  night  rather  than  con- 
fess failure  to  the  men  who  had  come  to  regard  him 
as  the  finest  engineer  on  the  river. 

When  he  reached  the  office,  he  found  his  eldest 
brother  restlessly  pacing  the  floor  of  the  private  room 
into  which  he  had  been  ushered.  It  might  be  a  most 
inconvenient  time  to  receive  visitors,  but  there  was  no 
doubting  the  sincerity  of  Robert's  welcome. 

"Sit  down,  Thomas,  old  fellow,  and  let  me  have  all 
the  news.  I've  been  trying  to  get  into  touch  with  you 
for  some  months,  but  this  new  work  of  yours  seems 
to  hurry  you  from  one  place  to  another  without  giving 
you  any  time  to  see  your  brothers.  How's  the  world 
using  you?  And  how's  your  good  wife?" 

The  years  had  dealt  very  unkindly  with  Thomas. 
He  had  never  been  robust,  but  at  forty  he  was  thinner, 
and  more  haggard,  and  more  discontented-looking 
than  when  at  twenty  he  had  satisfied  himself  that  he 
was  an  Ishmael.  He  had  grown  a  beard,  long  and 
ragged,  and  with  some  of  the  fiery  hue  that  had  once 
distinguished  his  father's.  He  wore  his  hair  long  in 
sympathy,  and  that,  too,  was  ragged;  but  his  clothes 
were  of  fairly  smart  cut,  and  the  broad-brimmed  felt 
hat  rested  jauntily,  if  not  defiantly,  on  his  head. 

"Sit  down,  Thomas,"  Robert  urged,  "and  take  your 
hat  off.  Try  to  make  yourself  comfortable.  We're 
not  accustomed  to  receiving  visitors  here,  so  we  don't 
stand  on  ceremony." 

"I  can  talk  better  if  I  walk  about,"  said  Thomas, 
with  the  gesture  of  the  paid  orator.  "I  called  to  see 
you  some  months  ago,  but  you  were  out." 

"Yes,  father  told  me  about  your  visit.     I  was  in 


"MACWHINNIE  BROTHERS"  187 

the  city  that  day,  trying  to  worry  contracts  out  of 
old-fashioned  people  who  seem  to  look  at  a  young 
concern  with  suspicion,  as  though  it  were  natural  so 
to  do." 

"And  how  is  trade?"  Thomas  was  walking  some- 
what rapidly  up  and  down  the  floor;  he  appeared  to 
be  stamping  inspiration  out  of  the  carpet. 

"Quite  good,"  said  Robert  cheerfully.  "We're 
young,  as  I  say,  so  we  mustn't  expect  too  much.  We 
have  several  contracts  in  hand  that  should  leave  a 
sound  margin  if  we  get  them  through  as  speedily  as  I 
anticipate.  But  you  never  can  tell,  Thomas.  You 
never  know  what  may  happen.  But  with  the  loyalty  of 
the  men  beyond  doubt,  we're  comparatively  free  from 
what,  with  all  due  deference  to  you,  we  may  regard  as 
the  greatest  danger  of  all — a  strike  at  a  most  inoppor- 
tune time." 

"Don't  be  too  optimistic,"  said  Thomas  warningly. 
"Human  nature  is  only  human  nature,  and  nowadays 
working  men  have  greater  minds  than  their  own  to 
think  for  them." 

Robert  nodded  pleasantly. 

"You  haven't  come  here  to  talk  politics,  have  you, 
Thomas  ?  No,  of  course  not.  Father  told  me  quite  a 
lot  of  news  about  you,  and  I  was  somewhat  anxious  to 
get  in  touch  with  you,  to  find  out  how  you're  fixed." 

"I  haven't  been  out  of  the  country,"  said  Thomas 
coldly,  and  to  insinuate  that  he  might  have  been  found, 
if  the  seeker  had  shown  any  spirit  in  his  search. 

Robert  changed  his  tone  immediately. 

"You  must   forgive  me,  Thomas.     We've  had  a 


188  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

busy  time  of  it  during  the  last  few  months,  and  con- 
siderable worry." 

"There  are  three  of  you  to  share  it,  anyway." 

"True,"  said  Robert,  still  in  a  brisk,  cheerful  tone, 
"but  even  three  heads  can't  overcome  everything, 
when  the  question  of  capital  arises." 

"You  fog  me,  Robert." 

"Simple  enough.  If  we  could  have  increased  our 
capital  six  months  ago,  we  might  have  undertaken  a 
great  deal  more  work — more  profitable  work." 

"And  why  don't  you  increase  your  capital?" 

Thomas  had  assumed  the  attitude  of  a  cross-exam- 
ining lawyer,  but  Robert  refused  to  see  it. 

"My  dear  Thomas,"  he  said  half  jocularly,  "where 
do  you  suppose  we  were  to  get  it  ?" 

Thomas  turned  to  face  him. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  he  said,  in  a  monotone. 

"/  couldn't  put  in  any  more." 

"No,  of  course  not" 

"Why  that,  Thomas — why  that  cynical  note?" 

"Did  it  sound  cynical?  I  was  only  surprised  by 
your  reply." 

"Why  should  you  be  surprised,  Thomas  ?"  A  slight 
pallor  showed  beneath  the  grime  on  Robert's  face; 
Thomas's  demeanor  was  arousing  a  spirit  of  resent- 
ment. 

"You're  talking  as  though  you  were  on  the  verge  of 
bankruptcy — as  they  all  talk  when  they  fear  an  appeal 
to  their  pockets." 

"What  appeal  were  you  going  to  make,  Thomas?" 

"I  haven't  said  that  I  was  going  to  make  any  ap- 
peal. I  was  only  feeling  my  way." 


"MACWHINNIE  BROTHERS"  189 

"To  my  pocket  ?" 

Thomas  threw  up  his  head  indignantly. 

"Don't  give  yourself  airs,  Robert.  You  have  the 
reputation  for  being  stand-offish,  but — but  I  know 
you." 

Robert  forced  back  the  natural  retort,  and  waved 
his  hand  genially. 

"Thomas,  old  fellow,"  he  said,  "if  you're  worried 
in  the  slightest  about  the  farm  and  the  sale  and  so 
forth,  take  it  for  granted  that  it's  quite  all  right.  Look 
here,  why  don't  you  come  down  to  my " 

"Of  course  it's  all  right.  What  have  you  at  the 
back  of  your  mind,  Robert?"  He  had  stopped  in  his 
perambulations,  and  was  glaring  at  his  brother. 

Robert  took  a  deep  breath  to  steady  himself. 

"Supposing — supposing  that  you  hadn't  made  a  bad 
shot  when  you  spoke  of  the  verge  of  bankruptcy; 
what  then  ?" 

Thomas  started  at  the  change  of  tone,  but  some- 
thing like  a  sneer  crept  into  his  face. 

"If  there  were  anything  in  it,"  he  replied,  "I  should 
have  only  one  comment  to  make." 

"Now's  your  chance,"  said  Robert  challengingly. 

"That  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

"Why,  pray?"  The  smile  that  flickered  in  Robert's 
eyes  at  the  preposterousness  of  the  remark  died  quick- 
ly away. 

Thomas  asked  superciliously : 

"Well,  whose  fault  would  it  be?" 

"I  don't  follow  you." 

"You  mean  that  you  don't  wish  to  follow  me.  The 
suggestion's  plain  enough." 


190  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Too  plain  to  be  serious." 

"This  is  not  my  day  for  jesting" — lugubriously  and 
in  his  best  platform  manner.  "I  came  to  see  you  on  a 
matter  which  ought  to  have  made  direct  appeal  to 
your  sense  of  justice — the  sense  of  justice  with  which 
you're  credited." 

"And  you  haven't  even  hinted  at  the  nature  of  it." 

"No,  because  you  anticipated  me,  as  they  all  do 
when  they  smell  a  rat." 

"I've  been  in  an  engine  pit  all  the  afternoon,"  said 
Robert,  a  little  wearily,  "and  the  only  smell  in  my 
nostrils  is  that  of  grease  and  carbon." 

"You  anticipated  me  by  holding  up  the  bogey  of 
bankruptcy." 

"It  was  half  in  jest." 

"And  I  told  you  that  this  wasn't  the  time  for  jest- 
ing." 

"Thomas — Thomas,  where  is  your  sense  of  hu- 
mor?" 

"Where  would  it  be,  if  I  returned  to  my  committee, 
and  informed  them  that  the  reputedly  wealthy  man, 
described  in  the  newspapers  as  the  genius  of  the  river 
— the  man  who  had  brought  a  fortune  out  of  the  Far 
East — my  own  brother — had  flung  lame  subterfuge  in 
my  face  when  asked  to  show  his  appreciation  of  hu- 
manity's demands?" 

"What  committee?  And  what  evidence  of  my  ap- 
preciation do  you  require?" 

"Perhaps  you  haven't  heard  of  the  New  England- 
ers?" 

"Fm  sorry  to  say  that  my  reading  is  practically  con- 
fined to  the  trade  papers." 


"MACWHINNIE  BROTHERS"  191 

"We're  not  Utopian  in  our  ideals." 

"You're  terribly  lachrymose,  old  fellow" — with  a 
cheery  smile. 

"One  cannot  look  on  misery — abject  misery — with 
laughter  in  one's  heart." 

"Come,  Thomas,  let's  have  it!" 

"It's  a  regeneration  scheme." 

"And  a  very  worthy  one." 

"There  are  thousands  of  men  who  are  waiting  for 
the  one  chance,  and  we're  going  to  give  it  to  them." 

"Where  are  they?    And  what  are  they  doing?" 

"In  prison,  breaking  their  hearts  because  of  the 
hardness  of  the  world." 

"You're  going  to  take  them  out?" 

"Organize  a  colony  and  attempt  a  task  from  which 
successive  governments  have  always  shrunk." 

Robert  rose  from  his  chair,  and  slapped  his  brother 
on  the  shoulder. 

"Thomas,  my  boy,  I'll  take  it  back.  You  have  a 
sense  of  humor." 

Thomas  swung  round  angrily. 

"To  laugh  at  a  man's  principles,  Robert,  is  the 
cheapest  form  of  criticism.  All  principles  deserve 
some  consideration." 

Robert  affected  gravity  on  the  instant. 

"I'm  not  laughing  at  your  principles,  Thomas,"  he 
said,  "because  I'm  not  certain  in  my  own  mind  what 
they  amount  to." 

"Anyway,  you're  inclined  to  treat  my  remarks 
lightly." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  should  never  treat  lightly  any- 
thing that  you  might  say.  It  was  the  somewhat  airy 


192  THE  PIONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

way  in  which  you  talked  of  regenerating  a  horde  of 
worthless  scoundrels,  men  who  wouldn't  work  even  if 
they  had  the  opportunity  given  them." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Thomas,  with  a  bitter  smile,  "you 
have  imbibed  all  the  old  prejudices  against  the  work- 
ingman,  against " 

"You're  wrong,  Thomas.  I  set  great  store  by  the 
ability  of  the  average  workingman.  Are  we  not  de- 
pendent on  his  loyalty  and  his  skill?" 

"If  you  valued  their  loyalty,  you  wouldn't  be  so 
ready  to  smile  at  the  suggestion  I  have  put  before  you. 
One  of  these  days,  Robert,  you  will  be  made  to  value 
the  loyalty  of  the  workingman." 

A  message  was  brought  in  from  the  yard.  Mr. 
MacGowan,  the  manager,  wished  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Robert. 

"Five  minutes,"  said  Robert  to  the  boy,  "and  I  shall 
be  there." 

Thomas  watched  the  closing  of  the  door  with  bel- 
ligerency glowing  in  his  eyes. 

"Now,"  said  Robert,  "let's  settle  this  little  trouble 
of  yours,  if  we  can,  Thomas.  Tell  me  exactly  what 
it  is  that  you  require.  Not  money,  I  hope  ?" 

Thomas  made  no  reply. 

"Because  I'll  tell  you  frankly  that  at  present  the 
firm  isn't  in  a  position  to  be  philanthropic.  In  fact, 
if  we,  ourselves,  could  lay  our  hands  on  a  little  more 
capital,  we  might  be  in  a  much  better  position  than 
we  are." 

"May  I  ask  what's  happened  to  the  capital?" 

"You  may  ask,  Thomas,  but  I  don't  know  that  I'm 
under  any  obligation  to  answer  you." 


"MACWHINNIE  BROTHERS"  193 

"I  think  you  are,"  said  Thomas.  "I'm  asking  you 
as  a  brother.  Not  that  I  shall  be  surprised  or  disap- 
pointed if  you  don't  answer  me.  There's  nothing  dis- 
creditable about  the  firm,  is  there,  that  you're  afraid 
to  tell  me  ?  Or,  shall  I  ask  David  ?  I  suppose  David 
would  be  in  a  better  position  even  than  you  to  say 
what  was  wrong  with  the  firm.  I  understand  that  you 
keep  his  nose  to  the  desk  pretty  closely.  I  was  sorry 
for  him  when  last  I  saw  him.  And  then  there's  Jamie. 
Is  he  another  of  your  slaves?  Robert,  I'm  sorry  that 
I've  had  to  speak  like  this  to  you ;  but  you've  brought 
it  on  yourself." 

"Do  I  understand,"  said  Robert  quietly — and  now 
there  was  nothing  like  mirth  in  either  his  voice  or  his 
eyes — "that  you  were  sent  by  your  committee,  or  vol- 
unteered to  come,  to  find  out  if  we  were  ready  to  con- 
tribute to  any  wild-cat  scheme?" 

"I  came  of  my  own  free  will,"  said  Thomas,  "be- 
lieving that  my  brother  Robert  hadn't  changed — that 
a  little  success  hadn't  turned  his  head.  And  it's  not  a 
wild-cat  scheme.  It's  one  based  on  careful  analysis  of 
human  nature,  and  behind  it  all  is  the  ennobling  desire 
to  help  those  who  are  unable  to  help  themselves." 

"We  were  talking  about  the  farm  just  now,"  said 
Robert.  "May  I  ask  what  has  become  of  the  pur- 
chase money?  .  .  .  You  needn't  answer,  Thomas.  I 
can  quite  believe  that  it  forms  the  basis  of  the  fund  for 
the  regeneration,  et  cetera.  Well,  there's  an  end 
of  it." 

"No,  it's  not  an  end  of  it,  Robert!"  Thomas  strucl: 
the  table  with  his  fist.  "I  remember  the  day,"  he  said, 
with  increasing  violence,  "when  you  used  to  say  that 


194  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

nothing  should  stand  between  you  and  your  ambition. 
Robert,  you're  not  the  only  one  in  the  family  that  has 
ambition ;  and  if  mine  doesn't  tend  toward  the  accumu- 
lation of  wealth,  it's  equally  great  and  worthy.  I've 
flung  my  whole  heart  into  the  work  I've  taken  up.  I 
feel  it.  It  has  become  part  of  me.  The  cries  of  the 
oppressed  are  insistent,  and  if  I  die  fighting  their  cause 
I  shall  feel  that  there  is  some  glory  in  it." 

Robert  regarded  him  pathetically. 

"There  was  always  a  revolutionary  banner  over 
your  head,  Thomas,"  he  said,  "and  no  one  admired 
you  more  than  I  did  for  the  hours  you  used  to  devote 
to  your  subject.  You're  older  than  I  am,  but  I  think 
that  I  have  seen  as  much  of  the  world  as  you  have. 
.Leave  these  hastily  conceived  schemes  to  the  others. 
There's  plenty  of  good  work  to  which  you  may  put 
your  hand,  and  I'm  willing  to  talk  it  over  with  David 
and  Jamie — to  see  what  we  can  do  in  the  way  of  mak- 
ing a  fresh  start  for  you." 

"I'm  not  a  beggar,"  Thomas  retorted.  "I  don't 
know  that  I  owe  you  anything,  and  after  that  remark 
of  yours  we'll  forget  any  tie  that  used  to  bind  us." 

"Thomas,  man!  You  can't  be  serious.  You're  so 
different  from  what  you  used  to  be !  I  can  hardly  be- 
lieve that  it's  my  brother  that's  standing  there  doing 
his  level  best  to  provoke  a  quarrel." 

"And  I  warn  you,  Robert,  that  my  interest  in  the 
workers,  in  humanity,  is  so  great  that  I  should  never 
allow  family  ties  to  sway  me.  The  Cause  should  come 
first." 

"There's  been  a  stoppage  in  the  engine  room,"  said 
Robert,  somewhat  curtly,  "and  every  minute  that  en- 


"MACWIIINN1E  BROTHERS"  195 

gine's  stopped  means  a  loss  to  the  firm.  Somebody 
must  do  some  work.  And  I  say  again  that  I'm  sorry 
you  should  have  come  to  see  me  in  this  spirit." 

"Don't  drive  me  too  far,  Robert,"  and  Thomas 
wagged  a  forefinger  warningly.  "I  could  say  things 
that  would  hurt  you  deeply,  but  I  don't  want  to  say 
them.  You're  not  playing  the  game." 

"What  game?"  asked  Robert,  wondering  how  long 
this  burlesque  was  going  to  continue. 

"You're  different,  that's  ail,"  said  Thomas.  "When 
you  whine  to  me  about  a  shortage  of  capital " 

"I'm  not  whining  at  all.  We're  doing  very  nicely, 
thank  you,  and  if  we  get  the  contracts  we  expect,  the 
firm  will  be  able  to  hold  its  head  as  high  as  any  other 
on  the  river." 

"It's  a  good  thing  for  the  firm,"  said  Thomas  dryly, 
"that  David  and  Jamie  haven't  added  to  their  respon- 
sibilities. They're  both  single  men  and  likely  to  re- 
main so." 

"You're  drifting  again,  Thomas." 

"I  mean  that  if  there  is  anything  in  your  story  about 
this  shortage  of  capital,  it  would  be  much  more  serious 
if  David  and  Jamie  were  married  and  had  children, 
and  lived  in  fashionable  houses  on  the  river,  and  kept 
armies  of  servants  to  look  after  their  children — • 
French  governesses,  music  masters,  and  what  not — 
and  if " 

"Thomas,  old  fellow !"  Robert's  voice  was  full  of 
pain. 

"And  if,  in  order  to  feed  their  vanity,  they  gave 
away  large  sums  of  money  to  questionable  charities." 

Robert  held  out  his  hand. 


196  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Come  again  another  time,  Thomas,"  he  said  coax- 
ingly.  "I  refuse  to  believe  that  this  is  my  brother 
talking." 

"I'll  repeat  everything  I've  said,"  was  the  truculent 
reply.  "You  owe  a  duty  to  your  brothers,  Robert 
MacWhinnie.  I  want  nothing  that  you've  got,  but  I 
warn  you  that  David  and  Jamie  are  not  serfs,  and  the 
time  will  come  when  they'll  have  done  with  what  I 
call  the  arrogance  of  newly  acquired  wealth.  Those 
who  stand  outside  see  a  deal  of  what's  going  on  in- 
side. I  suppose  that  if  I  went  to  David  and  Jamie  to 
enlist  their  sympathies  in  the  Cause  I  have  at  heart, 
they  would  be  able  only  to  shrug  their  shoulders  and 
point  to  you.  I  know  that  in  your  mind  you're  saying 
that  it's  your  money,  that  you  made  it,  that  you  started 
the  firm  of  MacWhinnie  Brothers.  But,  did  you?  Do 
you  ever  try  to  think  of  what  we  went  through  as 
youngsters  in  order  that  you  might  be  given  an  oppor- 
tunity to  push  yourself  to  the  front?" 

Robert  went  to  the  door. 

"I'll  ring  for  Jamie,"  he  said.  "I'm  afraid  I  can- 
not spare  you  any  more  of  my  time." 

A  clerk  answered  the  bell. 

"Ask  Mr.  James  if  he  can  spare  me  a  moment," 
said  Robert. 

The  clerk  gave  the  visitor  a  quick  glance,  then 
looked  again  at  Robert. 

"Mr.  James  is  away,  sir,"  he  said  falteringly,  "at 
Liverpool.  The  Waterloo  Cup  is  being  run  to-day." 

Robert  dismissed  the  clerk  with  a  nod,  and  closed 
the  door.  Without  looking  at  Thomas,  he  said  mus- 
ingly: "Jamie  is  very  interested  in  another  regenera- 


"MACWHINNIE  BROTHERS"  197 

tion  scheme,  Thomas — the  regeneration  of  grey- 
hounds. We'll  try  David." 

The  reply  brought  by  the  clerk  was  that  Mr.  David 
was  in  Paris,  on  firm's  business.  And,  again,  Robert 
nodded  a  dismissal ;  and  as  he  went  back  to  the  middle 
of  the  room,  he  said,  in  a  casual  way:  "I  do  hope  the 
boy  didn't  forget  his  golf  clubs." 

It  was  a  mere  coincidence  that  three  minutes  later 
the  telephone  bell  rang.  The  call  was  from  the  Gratz 
Hotel;  the  head  chef  wished  to  speak  to  Mr.  David 
MacWhinnie.  Robert  held  a  second  receiver  toward 
Thomas,  who  took  it. 

"Mr.  David  MacWhinnie  is  in  Paris  at  the  mo- 
ment," he  replied  to  the  chef,  "but  I'll  take  any  mes- 
sage that  you  may  have  for  him." 

"In  Paris?"  came  a  surprised  voice.  "But  what  of 
ze  banquet  to  Mam'selle  Fricot?" 

"Don't  know  her,"  said  Robert. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  came  an  excited  exclamation. 
"Mam'selle  Fricot — premiere  danseuse!  Mr.  Mac- 
Whinnie is  giving  a  banquet  in  her  honor  to-night  at 
the  Gratz  Hotel,  and  I  wished  to  know " 

"Yes,  I'll  take  it  all  down,"  said  Robert,  reaching 
for  a  pencil,  and  sighing  deeply  as  he  did  so. 

"It  isn't  fair  to  David,"  said  Thomas  sullenly, 
throwing  down  his  receiver. 

"I'll  take  his  message,  anyway,"  said  Robert.  .  .  . 
"Yes,  M'sieur  le  chef  ?  I'll  take  the  message." 

"Bien!  I  have  created  ze  great  dish — ze  Fricasse 
Fricot." 

"Spell  it,"  said  Robert  dully.  There  was  a  moment 
of  silence.  "Cut  off,"  he  said  at  last,  turning  to 


198  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Thomas.  Then,  as  he  rolled  up  his  sleeves  preparatory 
to  returning  to  the  engine  room :  "I'm  sorry  to  hear 
you  say  that  David  wasn't  looking  himself  when  you 
met  him  the  other  day,"  he  said.  "Good-by,  Thomas. 
Somebody  must  do  some  work." 


CHAPTER   III 

SYMPATHY 

THE  day's  work  done,  he  was  on  his  way  home, 
and  the  aching  of  his  limbs  because  of  the  ex- 
ertions in  the  yard  was  nothing  to  the  pain  in 
his  heart.  To  Thomas  he  had  shown  a  brave  face, 
but  not  since  the  death  of  brown-haired  Jean  in  far- 
away Japan  had  he  been  so  utterly  crushed  in  spirit. 
He  had  asked  no  reward  for  baring  his  shoulders  to 
another's  burden,  and  the  world  seemed  determined 
that  he  should  have  none.  He  walked  home,  as  always 
he  did,  that  being  the  only  form  of  exercise  his  work 
would  permit  of.  Usually  the  roar  and  hum  of  the 
traffic  and  the  droning  of  the  city's  workers  as  they 
spread  homeward,  away  from  the  hub  of  toil,  kept  his 
mind  from  dwelling  on  the  past,  even  exalted  him,  for 
it  was  good  to  feel  that  he  was  one  of  them — one  who 
filled  a  niche  in  God's  scheme  of  labor;  this  night  the 
droning  seemed  to  have  changed  to  sighing — sighing 
because  he  was  not  of  them;  he  was  alone,  and  the 
sense  of  loneliness  weighed  upon  him.  Among  all 
those  thousands  he  was  a  stranger.  His  heart  might 
be  aching — what  was  it  to  them  ? 

And  Jean's  broken  words  came  back  over  the  years 
• — the  strained,  pleading  cry  as  she  knelt  in  "Charity 

199 


200  THE  HOXOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Corner" — and  called  to  him  for  pity :  "I  wanted  sym- 
pathy, and  you'd  gone!" 

A  little  sympathy  would  have  meant  so  much  to 
him.  A  little  sympathy,  a  little  less  of  the  selfishness 
that  was  making  his  burden  greater  than  it  was,  and 
he  could  have  "plugged  ahead/'  as  dear  old  Dick  Mor- 
row would  have  said,  believing  that  some  day  the 
clouds  would  break,  and  the  sun  come  streaming  forth. 

"I  wanted  sympathy,  and  you'd  gone." 

And  somewhere,  on  the  farther  bank  of  the  river, 
hidden  behind  the  gaunt  masts  of  idle  ships  that 
fringed  the  water,  among  the  black  and  gray  of  hulls 
and  warehouse  walls,  yonder,  where  his  eyes  turned 
every  morning  when  he  rose  from  sleep,  where  they 
rested  for  a  little  while  before  he  turned  away  from 
the  window  at  night,  there  was  the  sympathy  of  which 
he  couldn't  avail  himself.  If  only  he  could  brush 
aside  the  mist  that  separated  them!  If  only  he  could 
forget  one  phase  of  the  burden,  he  knew  that  her  dear 
heart  would  come  back  to  his  for  the  sheltering  love 
that  he  could  give  it. 

And  the  years  were  as  cruel  as  the  world ;  they  were 
rushing  on,  forgetful  of  what  he  had  sacrificed,  of 
what  he  had  missed ;  indifferent  to  the  deeper  gray  of 
the  temples.  .  .  . 

He  saw  her  that  evening  as  he  walked  homeward. 
Her  dear  face,  yearning,  wistful,  and  as  old  as  his 
own,  yet  retaining  all  its  early  beauty  of  repose,  lifted, 
as  it  were,  from  out  of  the  throng,  and  looked  toward 
him.  A  cab  drew  up  beside  the  pavement ;  she  stepped 
out  of  the  jostling  crowd.  The  driver  leaned  forward 
to  receive  his  instructions — how  Robert  envied  the 


SYMPATHY  201 


man  his  privilege! — and  just  before  she  passed  into 
the  vehicle  she  looked  back  again.  He  was  twenty  or 
thirty  yards  from  her,  but  he  knew  that  a  gentle  smile 
of  forgiveness  dwelt  for  an  instant  in  her  eyes;  he 
knew  that  the  tears  welled  up  to  hide  him  from  her. 
And  she  was  gone,  leaving  her  name  trembling  upon 
his  lips.  But  fleeting  though  the  vision  had  been,  it 
gave  him  fresh  courage;  the  tired  limbs  swung  more 
freely  and  without  the  pain  that  had  wracked  them  a 
moment  before;  his  eyes  cleared;  he  saw  the  beacon 
in  the  far  distance,  and  his  ears  caught  the  laughter 
of  the  river  as  it  tumbled  toward  the  sea;  the  droning 
of  the  city  toilers  as  they  recounted  to  each  other  the 
incidents  of  the  day  swelled  into  music,  and  the 
warmth  of  the  evening  sky  enfolded  him. 

It  was  dusk  when  he  reached  the  garden  gate.  A 
Japanese  lantern  glowed  in  the  tiny  pagoda  set  among 
the  rhododendrons,  and  a  slim  little  elf  stole  out  of 
the  deepening  gray  of  twilight  to  give  him  welcome. 

"Mori,  darling!" 

"Dear  daddy!" 

And  gone  was  the  memory  of  base  ingratitude.  He 
picked  the  child  up  in  his  arms,  and  pressed  his  cheek 
against  hers;  and  as  she  wound  her  little  warm  arms 
around  his  neck,  as  her  long  brown  hair  was  blown 
against  his  face,  as  he  felt  her  heart  beating  in  ecstasy 
against  his,  he  knew  that  no  sacrifice  is  ever  allowed 
to  pass  unnoticed. 

Mori  was  permitted  to  stay  up  to  dinner  that  night 
(he  wanted  sympathy)  ;  she  was  his  little  housekeeper 
for  once;  she  waited  upon  him,  urged  him  to  have 
some  more  of  this  and  the  merest  portion  of  that,  and 


202  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

wondered  aloud  if  he  had  been  trying  to  do  too  much 
during  the  day,  and  if  he  were  looking  quite  so  well 
as  when  he  left  in  the  morning,  and  whatever  he  would 
be  likely  to  do  if  she  were  not  there  to  attend  to  him. 
And  when  coffee  was  cleared,  she  found  his  big  briar 
pipe,  and  insisted  on  charging  it — insisted  on  trying 
the  draught — and  then — and  then  she  "snuggled  in" 
beside  him  on  the  deep-seated  armchair,  and: 

"You  start  it,  my  darling,"  he  whispered  tenderly. 

"One  day,  daddy,  one  day  there  was  a  man." 

He  had  turned  the  lights  low;  the  corners  of  the 
room  were  in  shadow,  and  out  of  the  shadow  the  faces 
of  Jean  and  Margaret  seemed  to  creep  as  though  they, 
too,  wished  to  listen  to  the  story. 

"One  day,  my  darling,  there  was  a  poor  man,  a 
beggar,  who  loved  a  beautiful  princess.  And  she  loved 
him  because  she  believed  in  him.  But  something  hap- 
pened to  keep  them  apart.  Something  happened  to 
lead  the  princess  to  fear  that  the  man  didn't  love  her 
any  more." 

"But  why  didn't  he  tell  her,  daddy?" 

"Because — because  he  couldn't  tell  her  without  hurt- 
ing someone  else.  But  he  did  love  her ;  he  knew  that 
he  would  never  love  anyone  as  he  loved  her.  The 
years  passed,  and  he  saw  her  only  seldom,  and  then 
from  a  great  distance.  And  he  began  to  grow  old,  or 
to  think  that  he  was  growing  old;  and  everybody — 
well,  nearly  everybody — was  unkind  to  him.  They 
shrugged  their  shoulders  when  they  passed  him  on  the 
road,  and  soon — soon  they  began  to  throw  mud  and 
stones  when  they  saw  him  coming.  He  bore  with  it 
all,  because  he  believed  that  the  princess  still  loved 


SYMPATHY  203 


him,  and  that  one  day  they  would  meet  and  love  each 
other  as  they  used  to.  But  the  days  went  by,  and  the 
distance  between  them  widened,  and  he  began  to  ask 
himself  if  there  was  any  more  joy  in  life  for  him. 
And  just  when  he  had  almost  persuaded  himself  that 
there  was  nothing  for  him  save  stones  and  mud,  a 
little  fairy — just  like  you,  my  darling — crept  out  of 
the  grass  and  weeds  by  the  side  of  the  road — crept  to 
where  he  was  sitting  with  his  hands  over  his  eyes. 
She  called  to  him  so  softly  that  for  a  long  while  he 
paid  no  attention.  Then  she  drew  away  one  of  his 
hands,  and  when  she  saw  the  tears  flowing  down  his 
cheeks,  she  climbed  on  his  knee  and  kissed  them  all 
away.  He  opened  his  eyes,  and  placed  his  arm  around 
her — just  like  this,  darling — for  he  saw  how  beautiful 
she  was,  and  feared  that  she  might  fly  away.  He 
asked  her:  'Where  did  you  come  from?'  and  she 
said,  'I  have  been  near  you  a  long  while,  but  your  eyes 
were  so  full  of  trouble  that  you  couldn't  see  me.' 
'What  an  old  duffer  I  must  be!'  he  said,  and  already 
he  was  feeling  as  happy  as  could  be.  'Where  have 
you  been  hiding?'  'Just  behind  your  trouble,'  she 
told  him,  and  laughed  so  heartily  that  the  echoes  raced 
over  the  banks  at  the  side  of  the  road.  'If  you  hadn't 
been  thinking  so  much  about  your  troubles,  you  would 
have  seen  me  long  ago,'  she  told  him.  'And  where  are 
you  going?'  he  asked  very  nervously,  because  he  felt 
that  he  didn't  deserve  so  beautiful  a  fairy.  Til  stay 
with  you,'  she  said,  'but  you  must  never  let  Trouble 
come  between  us  again.'  And  so  he  tightened  his  arms 
around  her — just  like  this,  darling! — and  he  held  her 
to  him,  and  .  .  ." 


WEAK   LINKS 

THE   pagoda  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  had 
been  transformed  by  the  snow  and  a  little  im- 
agination on  the  part  of  Robert  into  an  Esqui- 
mau's hut  when  Mrs.  MacWhinnie,  in  Ballyhoustie, 
decided  that  Robert  had  been  left  long  enough  in 
peace.     She  wrote  him  a  letter  of  many  pages,  and 
it  was  not  without  pathos  when  the  narrowness  of  it 
all  was  set  on  one  side. 

"My  DEAR  BOY. — I've  begged  and  prayed  of  your  father 
to  write  this  for  me,  but  you  know  what  he  is.  There  are 
times,  Rob,  when  I  ask  myself  if  all  this  change  has  been 
for  the  best — that's  when  I  look  at  your  father.  If  I  said 
that  he  was  getting  sairly  fat  and  lazy,  it  would  no  be  a  sin 
against  him  or  my  conscience.  I  mind  the  time  when  he 
was  a  riveter  on  the  Clyde  and  had  to  get  out  of  his  bed 
at  six  in  the  morning,  rain,  hail,  or  shine.  'Ay,  ay,'  he 
used  to  grummel,  'it's  a  dog's  life.  Gie  me  a  cottage  and 
a  pound  a  week  and  I'll  ask  no  mair.'  And  what's  hap- 
pened? There  he  sets  on  the  fence  watching  the  potatoes 
grow  and  thinking  out  an  invention  to  dig  them  up  in  the 
autumn  by  machinery.  Anything  to  save  himself  a  bit  of 
labor. 

"Tammas's  wife,  Maggie,  came  to  Ballyhoustie  a  week  or 
two  gone,  and  I've  no  been  myself  sin.  She  went  about  the 
house  with  a  look  in  her  eyes  that  telled  me  as  plain  as  plain 
that  she  didn't  think  I  was  fit  for  my  new  surroundings. 
Sat  down  on  the  chair  as  if  she  expected  it  to  squeak,  and 

204 


WEAK  LINKS  205 


said  it  fair  brought  her  hairt  into  her  mouth  to  see  your 
father  on  the  carpet  with  his  dirty  boots.  She's  a  nice  bit 
body,  but  her  tongue  seems  to  be  loose  at  both  ends.  It 
seems  you've  been  having  her  down  there  on  a  visit.  She'll 
no  get  over  your  furniture  till  her  dying  day,  and  wee  Mori 
has  reminded  her  of  all  she  never  got  herself  when  she  wr.s 
a  baby.  Poor  jealous  body,  she  didn't  know  how  to  hold 
herself  as  she  reckoned  up  what  it  must  have  cost  ye  to 
bring  the  bairn  up  as  far  as  you  have.  Tarn's  not  having 
much  luck,  and  from  what  I  could  gather  from  her,  he's  no 
happy  in  his  mind.  Rob,  man,  we'll  have  to  put  our  heads 
together  to  see  what  can  be  done  for  him. 

"I  suppose  Jamie  told  you  that  he  came  up  to  see  his  old 
mother  a  while  back.  I  hardly  knew  the  lad,  he  was  that 
fine.  Like  he  would  do,  he  went  to  the  old  cottage  first,  for- 
getting that  we'd  been  here  for  a  couple  of  years  and  more. 
He  said  that  he  walked  right  up  to  the  old  door  before  he 
noticed  that  we  must  have  gone,  for  the  creature  that's  liv- 
ing there  now  had  cut  down  all  the  hollyhocks  in  the  cor- 
ner of  the  garden  by  the  rockery,  and  there  was  no  a  sweet- 
william  in  the  place,  you  know  how  I  loved  sweet-williams; 
and  the  white  rose  by  the  gate  was  no  there,  and  she  had 
chickens  and  young  ducks  running  about  the  bit  grass  under 
the  window.  Rob,  man,  you'll  think  your  old  mother's  get- 
ting saft,  but  it  fair  made  my  hairt  bleed  to  listen  to  him. 
When  you  were  all  bairns — long  before  we  went  to  the 
south — I  used  to  spend  hours  in  that  bit  garden,  and  there 
was  no  a  flower  in  it  that  I  hadn't  bred  from  cuttings 
and  the  like.  If  I'd  been  slapped  in  the  face  I  couldn't 
have  been  hurt  more  than  when  Jamie  told  me  what  the 
creature  had  done. 

"How's  David?  I  worrit  a  deal  about  him,  'cause  after  all 
he's  only  a  bairn — he'll  always  be  a  bairn  to  me. 

"When  the  weather  clears  a  bit,  I'll  try  to  get  down,  but 
it's  a  sight  of  money  to  spend  on  the  railways;  they'd  take 
your  last  penny  from  you  and  no  say  thanks;  that's  the 
way  of  the  world,  so  I  tell  your  father:  'Get  it,  stick  to  it, 
and  get  some  more.' 

"If  you  should  happen  to  have  a  little  to  spare,  you  could 
make  your  old  mother  wonderfully  happy  by  buying  that 
-•ottage.  I'd  turn  the  creature  out  of  it,  to-morrow. 


206  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Your  father  is  awfy  happy  and  fat  as  I  said,  and  if  he 
could  only  leave  the  inventing  alone  for  a  while  he'd  be  a 
better  man  in  temper  than  he  is." 

Mr.  MacWhinnie  had  enclosed  a  note  of  his  own : 

"Robert,  boy,  if  you  should  happen  to  think  of  anything  I 
might  be  doing  down  your  way,  you'd  better  drop  me  a 
line.  I'm  sick  for  a  change." 

But  Robert  was  not  disposed  to  let  his  mind  dwell 
on  the  bubbles  of  trouble  that  had  arisen  in  Bally- 
houstie;  for  the  news  that  had  come  in  the  second 
letter  overshadowed  all  else.  Even  Mori  was  a  victim 
to  his  ecstatic  mood,  for  he  was  all  impatience  to  reach 
the  office.  He  was  burning  with  a  desire  to  be  first 
with  the  news,  but  the  morning  newspapers  antici- 
pated him.  When  he  arrived  at  the  office,  David  and 
Jamie  were  awaiting  him.  He  clashed  the  door  be- 
hind him,  and  cried  out  like  a  schoolboy : 

"Boys,  I  have  great  news !" 

"We've  had  it  already,"  said  David.  "The  news- 
papers are  full  of  it/'  and  he  flung  a  copy  across  the 
table  in  Robert's  direction. 

Jamie,  tall  and  thin,  like  his  brother  Thomas,  and 
somewhat  esthetic  of  bearing,  affected  calm,  although 
David  had  impressed  on  him  the  significance  of  the 
news.  Robert  picked  up  the  newspaper,  and  read 
aloud  the  column  that  had  been  marked  by  his  brother. 

MacWhinnie  Brothers,  the  youngest  firm  on  the 
river,  had  been  honored — that  was  how  the  newspaper 
writer  put  it — had  been  honored  by  the  Chilian  Gov- 
ernment. The  firm  was  to  "engine"  three  destroyers, 


WEAK  LINKS  207 


and  the  most  remarkable  part  about  it  was  that  their 
tender  had  been  higher  than  the  tenders  of  three  or 
four  old-established  firms.  The  writer  of  the  article 
found  in  this  fact  a  tribute  to  the  genius  of  Robert 
MacWhinnie,  whose  name  had  been  made  in  the  Far 
East.  Following  the  comments  of  the  trade  writer 
were  abbreviated  interviews  with  several  well-known 
firms  of  engineers,  the  heads  of  which  had  been  asked 
to  express  an  opinion  on  the  Chilian  decision.  The 
name  of  John  Drender,  of  Drender,  Masters  and  Com- 
pany, was  prominent — at  least,  to  Robert's  eyes — 
among  those  who  had  been  drawn  by  the  interviewer. 
And  John  Drender  had  said  this :  "The  honor  is 
shared  by  Drender  and  Masters,  for  it  was  here  that 
Robert  MacWhinnie  learned  his  trade.  If  the  work 
depends  on  the  skill  of  Robert  MacWhinnie,  it  will  be 
well  done." 

Robert  dropped  the  newspaper. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  he  asked  of  the 
other  two.  "Isn't  it  just  splendid  ?" 

"It's  a  kick  in  the  ribs  for  old  Drender,"  said  Da- 
vid superciliously. 

"If  we  can  put  it  through,"  said  Jamie,  still  affect- 
ing a  calm  that  he  didn't  feel. 

Robert  turned  on  him  with  an  outburst  almost  of 
indignation. 

"//  we  can  put  it  through?"  he  echoed.  "Of  course 
we  shall  put  it  through!  Somehow,  I  felt  that  this 
was  coming  to  us,  just  when  we  needed  it  most.  This 
is  going  to  be  the  making  of  the  firm,  if  we  put  our 
backs  into  it  ...  David,  what  have  you  to  say  about 
it?" 


208  THE  HOXOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"I  haven't  had  time  to  think  about  it  yet,"  said 
David  cautiously. 

"And  you,  Jamie?  Come,  now,  be  candid.  Don't 
you  think  that  this  is  the  greatest  thing  that's  hap- 
pened to  us?" 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  Jamie,  "that  we  should  look 
rather  cheap  in  the  eyes  of  our  rivals,  if  we  found  that 
we'd  bitten  off  more  than  we  could  comfortably  chew." 

"Rivals  ?"  said  Robert,  with  a  laugh.  "We  have  no 
rivals.  If  you  and  David  put  your  hearts  into  it,  we'll 
show  this  sleepy  old  river  how  work  should  be  done." 

Jamie  glanced  at  David,  as  for  instruction.  David 
was  idly  turning  over  the  pages  of  the  newspaper,  as 
though  contracts,  even  of  this  magnitude,  were  a  mere 
detail  in  his  life. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  a  casual  way,  "I  suppose  a  great 
deal  does  depend  on  Jamie  and  me." 

"Of  course,"  said  Robert,  his  cheeks  aglow  with 
enthusiasm.  "If  we  don't  stand  together,  the  chances 
are  that  we  shall  fail.  But  we  mustn't  fail.  This  is 
an  honor  to  the  firm,  and  we  have  to  show  the  world 
that  we're  capable  of  appreciating  it." 

"When  are  you  going  to  sign  the  contracts  ?"  David 
asked,  peeping  over  the  top  of  his  paper. 

"I  have  the  letter  here,"  said  Robert.  "It  came  this 
morning.  I  have  an  appointment  at  two  o'clock  with 
the  Government's  representative." 

"There's  a  time  limit,  of  course?"  said  Jamie  in- 
quiringly. 

"Of  course,"  said  Robert,  glancing  again  at  his 
letter. 

"What  is  it?" 


"WEAK  LINKS  209 


Robert  might  have  read  what  was  in  his  brother's 
mind,  for  a  change  came  over  him  instantly. 

"That  has  to  be  discussed,"  he  said  evasively,  and 
put  the  letter  in  his  pocket.  Then  he  fell  again  to 
exulting.  "Apart  from  the  margin  we  may  make  on 
this  contract,"  he  said,  pounding  the  palm  of  his  left 
hand  with  his  right  fist,  "there's  the  tremendous  pub- 
licity attached — the  advertisement.  Wait  till  the  trade 
papers  come  out.  Won't  they  screech !  And  the  fact 
that  our  tender  wasn't  the  lowest  is  the  grandest  thing 
of  all — it  implies  so  much !" 

"You're  very  excited  about  it,  Robert,"  said  Jamie, 
looking  down  his  nose.  "It  wouldn't  do  for  the  rep- 
resentative to  see  you  so  elated.  The  proper  thing  to 
do  is  to  convince  him  that  we're  not  at  all  anxious  for 
the  contract." 

"Ah !  Jamie,"  said  Robert,  "I  never  was  a  hypocrite 
— thank  God  for  that ! — and  if  you  think  that  you  can 
convey  a  false  impression  in  that  way  you're  greatly 
mistaken.  We  are  glad  of  the  contract — at  least,  I 
am." 

"Then,  for  your  sake,"  said  Jamie,  with  a  mock 
sigh,  "I  hope  we  shall  be  able  to  put  it  through." 

Robert  frowned  slightly. 

"Why  are  you  so  anxious  to  raise  doubts  in  that 
direction  ?"  he  asked. 

Jamie  made  an  expressive  gesture. 

"All  right,  Robert,"  he  said  shortly.  "It's  just  as 
well  that  one  of  us  should  try  to  remain  calm  and  col- 
lected. And,  of  course,  I  have  no  knowledge  of  the 
time  limit.  One  of  the  newspapers  sent  a  man  down 


210  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

half  an  hour  before  you  arrived.  He  wanted  to  know, 
for  the  benefit  of  his  readers." 

"You  keep  the  newspaper  men  out  of  this  office," 
said  Robert.  "We're  going  to  get  all  the  publicity  we 
need  without  their  help." 

"Naturally,  I  couldn't  tell  him,"  said  Jamie,  "being 
only  a  junior  partner.  But  if  he  were  to  ask  me  again 
— if  he  were  to  suggest  that  the  work  must  be  com- 
pleted in,  say,  six  months,  I  think  I  know  what  I 
should  be  able  to  tell  him." 

"What?"  asked  Robert  quickly. 

"That  it  couldn't  be  done." 

"My  dear  Jamie,"  said  Robert,  refusing  to  be 
piqued,  "you  must  never  show  the  world  a  tearful 
face.  You  must  never  raise  doubts  in  other  people's 
minds  that  you're  certain  of  yourself.  If  you  were 
to  tell  the  newspapers  that  you  didn't  think  that  the 
firm  of  MacWhinnie  Brothers  could  put  this  contract 
through,  the  newspapers  would  see  to  it  that  you 
didn't.  What  we  have  to  do  is  to  square  our  shoul- 
ders, turn  up  our  sleeves,  and  get  to  work,  asking  no 
one's  advice,  thinking  nothing  of  the  possibilities  of 
failure,  never  dreaming  of  them,  but  assuming  from 
the  very  beginning  that  the  work  will  be  completed 
within  the  stipulated  time." 

"We  have  a  dozen  or  more  small  contracts  in  hand 
now,"  said  Jamie.  "I  hope  you're  not  forgetting 
those." 

"I  never  forget  anything,"  said  Robert.  "I  can't 
afford  to  forget." 

"Oh,  I  only  mentioned  them,  that's  all !"  said  Jamie, 
in  a  haughty  tone  of  voice.  "There  was  one  came  in 


WEAK  LINKS.  211 


a  few  weeks  ago — one  that  will  take  us  a  considerable 
time  to  complete." 

"You  mean  the  Johnson  rotary  ?  I  remember.  The 
contract  was  signed  the  day  'Ballydoud'  won  the 
Waterloo  Cup — the  day  Mademoiselle  Fricot  was  ban- 
queted at  the  Gratz  by  one  of  her  many  admirers. 
Well,  what  about  these  smaller  contracts  ?" 

"We'll  have  to  complete  them,"  said  Jamie,  whose 
cheeks  were  scarlet  because  of  the  reference  to  the 
Waterloo  Cup. 

"We  shall  complete  them,  all  right." 
"Then  you  intend  to  increase  the  wage-list?" 
"I  do  not,"  said  Robert.     "We  have  sufficient  men 
here  to  put  everything  through  satisfactorily." 
"I  doubt  it — very  seriously,  I  doubt  it." 
"You  should  get  rid  of  some  of  your  doubts,  Jamie. 
I  warrant  that  when  the  men  hear  of  this  honor  that's 
been  paid  the  firm,  they'll  take  it  in  a  personal  sense, 
and  they'll  put  their  hearts  into  the  work.    See  if  they 
don't." 

"If  I  know  anything  about  the  demands  of  such  a 
contract,"  said  Jamie  sententiously,  "we'll  need  to  take 
on  an  additional  hundred  hands." 

"If  you'll  tell  me  who's  going  to  pay  them,  I'll  fall 
in  with  your  argument,"  said  Robert. 

"It's  either  that,  or  making  a  mess  of  the  contract." 
"We  shall  not  take  on  a  single  additional  hand," 
said  Robert,  "and  we're  going  to  win." 

"All  right,"  said  Jamie,  waving  a  hand,  and  moving 
toward  the  door.  "You  always  were  optimistic,  even 
when  you  had  no  reason  to  be.  Anyway,  don't  blame 


THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 


me  if  anything  happens.  It  was  my  duty  to  point  out 
to  you  -  " 

"Of  course  it  was  your  duty,"  said  Robert. 
"There's  no  reason  to  get  up  on  your  hind  legs,  Jamie. 
We  are  here  to  inquire  into  such  problems.  You've 
raised  your  points,  and  I'm  satisfied  that  we  can  over- 
come the  difficulties  that  you  anticipate.  There's  an 
end  of  it.  What  do  you  say,  David?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  said  David,  lowering  his 
newspaper.  "I  wasn't  listening." 

Robert's  face  changed  instantly. 

"There's  a  couple  of  your  clerks  coming  through  the 
yard,"  he  said,  somewhat  grimly.  "They're  half  an 
hour  late.  Most  certainly  we  shall  not  be  able  to  put 
the  contract  through  if  we  give  time  away  like  that." 

David's  reply  was  to  drop  the  newspaper  and  saun- 
ter out  of  the  office.  When  Robert  passed  through 
the  clerical  department  on  his  way  to  the  yard  to  see 
MacGowan,  the  manager,  he  noticed  a  letter  lying  in 
the  post-basket  and  near  the  elbow  of  David's  stenog- 
rapher. It  was  addressed  to  Thomas  MacWhinnie, 
Esq. 


CHAPTER   V 

THE   TOUCH    OF   A    CHILD 

ROBERT  lunched  with  the  Chilian  representa- 
tive. The  contract  was  signed,  and  there  was 
the  promise  of  more,  if  this  one  should  be  suc- 
cessfully carried  through.  It  was  late  in  the  after- 
noon when  he  returned  to  the  works,  and  his  two 
brothers  had  already  left.  The  scene  in  the  office 
earlier  in  the  day  had  threatened  to  disturb  his  peace 
of  mind,  but  as  he  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  and  pre- 
pared for  the  journey  home,  he  fell  back  on  a  little  of 
his  own  philosophy,  or,  rather,  the  philosophy  with 
which  he  had  invested  the  fairy  of  his  imagination.  It 
had  hurt  him  keenly  to  find  that  Thomas  had  not  been 
so  wide  of  the  mark,  after  all,  in  his  references  to  the 
two  younger  brothers.  It  hurt  him,  because  he  real- 
ized how  important  it  was  that  they  should  stand  to- 
gether, believing  and  feeling  that  their  interests  were 
the  same.  But  when  one  goes  out  to  look  for  trouble 
one  is  seldom  disappointed,  and  as  his  fairy  had  said, 
he  should  not  concern  himself  too  much  with  it,  but 
look  behind  and  beyond.  Apart  from  that  scene,  the 
day  had  been  one  of  triumph  for  him,  for  he  was  well 
able  to  appreciate  the  magnitude  of  the  honor  that  had 
been  paid  the  firm.  He  went  home  with  a  heart  that 
became  lighter  at  every  step.  There  would  be  a  new 

213 


214  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

story  for  Mori  that  night,  and  together  they  would 
weave  romances  for  the  future — even  as  he  and  some- 
one else  had  woven  them,  years  before. 

And  another  joy  awaited  him.  As  the  hall  door 
opened,  he  heard  a  burst  of  childish  laughter  coming 
from  the  head  of  the  stairway,  and,  following  the 
outburst,  a  rumbling  crashing,  as  someone  slid  down 
the  stairs  on  a  tray.  Mori  shrieked  out :  "Do  it  again ! 
Do  it  again!"  There  was  a  mass  of  sprawling  legs 
and  ruffled  hair  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  as  it 
slowly  extricated  itself,  Robert  fell  upon  it. 

"Dick!"  he  cried.  "I  knew  that  it  could  be  only 
you  who  would  do  such  a  mad  thing !" — and  those  two 
men  began  to  behave  like  a  couple  of  girls  who  had 
been  separated  for  years  and  years.  And  as  they 
couldn't  very  well  kiss  each  other,  they  kissed  Mori  by 
turns. 

"I've  always  said,"  laughed  Robert,  as  he  dragged 
the  new  arrival  into  the  study,  with  Mori  now  upon 
his  shoulder,  "I've  always  said  that  you'd  come  back 
like  this." 

"Well,  and  how  would  you  have  me  come  back? 
.  .  .  O  Mori  San,  leave  me  just  a  little  bit  of  hair — 
I've  lost  so  much  already." 

"And  you're  as  gray  as  a  badger,"  said  Robert. 

"Ah,  but  an  uncommonly  active  badger,  Robert !  I 
would  like  to  see  the  dog  that  could  draw  me.  And 
you?  You're  looking  remarkably  well  fed.  That 
must  be  O  Mori  San.  What  a  housekeeper !  She  fat- 
tens and  she  spoils  you,  I'll  be  bound,  while  poor  old 
Uncle  Dick  has  had  to  be  content  with  bananas,  and  a 
few  nuts,  and  rice  bound  up  in  seaweed — that's  the 


THE  TOUCH  OF  A  CHILD 215 

tack — don't  you  remember  it,  Robert,  when  you  first 
went  out?" 

"Dick,  you're  getting  older!"  Robert  was  holding 
him  at  arm's  length  and  shaking  his  head  in  pretended 
sympathy.  "You're  getting  older — and  yet,  I  think 
you  must  have  caught  something  of  the  perpetual 
youth  of  which  the  musumes  used  to  talk.  And  I'm 
not  so  sure  that  you're  not  getting  positively  ugly. 
Where  did  you  get  that  gash  on  the  cheek?" 

"Ah!"  said  Dick,  holding  up  his  finger,  "that's  a 
story  for  you,  O  Mori  San — a  story  of  the  most  won- 
derful fish  I  ever  saw — and  I  was  the  bait,  for  the 
time  being." 

"And  you're  nearly  bald" — laughingly. 

"That's  O  Mori  San." 

"And  where  have  you  been,  and  when  did  you  re- 
turn, and  what  have  you  been  doing  in  this  country  ?" 

"I've  been  returning  for  five  years,"  said  Dick,  "but 
I  couldn't  raise  the  money  to  get  home.  My  boy,  if 
you  could  have  seen  me  stoking  on  a  tramp  steamer, 
you'd  have  pitied  me !  I  worked  my  passage  back." 

"Rubbish!"     Robert  laughed.     "I  don't  believe  it." 

"I  did.  Just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing.  We're  not 
all  millionaires,  Robert — else  there  wouldn't  be  any 
interest  in  life,  would  there?" 

"How  long  have  you  been  back  ?" 

"A  fortnight,  and  I  haven't  met  a  single  person  who 
had  the  common  decency  to  ask  me  if  I'd  like  some- 
thing to  eat!  What  time  do  you  have  dinner  here, 
Robert  ?  We  used  to  have  it  at  any  old  time — didn't 
we?  But  now  that  you're  a  great  man  I  suppose 
you're  a  slave  to  the  usual  conventions." 


216  THE  HOXOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"We  shall  have  dinner  at  once,  old  fellow.  Give  me 
a  few  minutes  to  change  and  to  pack  Mori  off  to 
bed " 

"You  can  stop  the  dinner,  then,  Robert,  for  O  Mori 
San  is  not  going  to  bed  before  dinner.  Oh,  we're 
great  friends !  She's  going  back  with  me." 

"Then  there'll  be  three  of  us,  Dick." 

"And  first-class  company,  too.  We'll  be  your  lov- 
ers, O  Mori  San,  and  we'll  fight  duels  just  to  please 
you.  We'll  do  anything — won't  we,  Robert?" 

"But  what  are  you  doing  over  here  ?"  Robert  urged. 

"What  would  you  have  me  do? — working,  of 
course." 

"Working?" 

"Don't  say  it  as  though  it  were  something  new  to 
me." 

"What  kind  of  work?" 

"The  usual  occupation,  Robert — whipping  up  the 
black  sheep  and  stealing  a  little  of  their  wool." 

"Begging  again?" 

"Quite  right,  my  boy.  I  shall  be  begging  from  you, 
after  I've  had  dinner.  I  must  get  that  out  of  you 
first." 

"Can't  be  done,  Dick.  But  you  shall  have  the  din- 
ner, and  you  shall  stay  in  this  house  until  we  let  you 
go.  What  do  you  say,  Mori  ?" 

Mori's  big  eyes  had  taken  to  themselves  a  wonder- 
ing expression,  and  she  looked  from  one  face  to  the 
other  and  asked  plaintively  if  Uncle  Dick  were  the 
beggar  of  the  fairy  story.  She  seemed  quite  disap- 
pointed that  he  wasn't. 

At  dinner,  Dick  Morrow  was  given  an  opportunity 


THE  TOUCH  OF  A  CHILD  217 

to  answer  some  of  the  hundreds  of  questions  that 
were  rushed  across  the  table  to  him.  During  the  last 
few  years  he  had  been  in  the  Philippines,  in  Korea, 
Manchuria,  and  even  as  high  up  as  the  northeast  cor- 
ner of  Siberia.  He  had  been  down  with  fever,  and 
was  back  in  England  for  a  rest.  In  spite  of  Robert's 
jesting  remarks  about  his  looks,  there  was  very  little 
change  in  Dick  Morrow.  True,  his  hair  was  very 
thin ;  there  was  little  color  in  his  cheeks,  and  the  wrin- 
kles across  his  forehead,  and  the  ruts  in  the  eye-cor- 
ners were  much  more  pronounced ;  but  the  eyes  were 
still  full  of  the  old  fire,  the  old  indomitable,  restless 
spirit.  He  told  Robert  that  he  had  been  doing  a  little 
slumming  by  way  of  a  holiday,  and  had  found  it  to  be 
full  of  interest. 

"Of  course,"  said  Robert,  "slumming  was  much 
more  important  than  Mori  or  I,  so  you  didn't  trouble 
to  hurry  to  our  rescue?" 

"You're  quite  right,  Robert,"  said  Dick,  "and  being 
a  cautious  man  yourself,  I  should  have  thought  that 
you'd  admire  that  in  me.  I  wanted  to  find  out  if  Scot- 
land stood  where  it  did,  because  out  yonder  people 
were  talking  about  MacWhinnie  Brothers  as  though 
the  Thames  had  only  just  commenced  to  live,  and  I 
wasn't  certain  that  you'd  care  to  recognize  me.  Or, 
put  it  this  way,  for  I  can  see  that  you're  getting  on 
your  toes  :  I  fancied  that  my  long  absence  from  home 
might  have  made  me  a  little  uncouth.  .  .  .  What 
would  you  say,  Mori,  if  you  saw  me  eating  with  my 
fingers,  instead  of  a  knife  and  fork?  It's  much  easier, 
I  can  assure  you.  You  can  always  pick  out  the  best 
bits  from  the  common  pot.  Can't  you  see  your  Uncle 


218 


Dick  sitting  in  the  circle  of  natives,  with  long  finger 
and  thumb  poised,  just  so,  ready  to  grab  when  the 
chief  says  grab?  ...  A  nice  thing,  Robert,  if  I'd 
walked  into  your  house  and  found  you  entertaining  the 
President  of  Chili.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  I've  heard  all  about 
it!  ...  If  I'd  walked  in  and  left  my  boots  on  the 
doorstep,  or  greeted  your  distinguished  guest  by  rub- 
bing noses  with  him,  or  followed  one  of  the  many 
customs  I've  had  to  assimilate!  No,  no,  Robert;  I 
went  about  it  cautiously;  and,  besides,  I  had  to  com- 
mence my  holiday  at  once  when  I  got  here.  Oh,  it's  a 
great  life,  this  slumming,  Robert.  I  assure  you  that 
I've  found  less  interest  in  some  of  the  outposts  of 
the  Empire  where  everything  is  supposed  to  be  pic- 
turesque and  romantic.  I  fought  three  sharp  rounds 
last  night  with  the  toughest  'pug' — that's  what  you 
call  them,  isn't  it? — imaginable.  I  wished  you'd  been 
there  to  give  me  a  knee,  Robert.  And  there  was  an- 
other fellow  with  him,  who  might  have  given  you  a 
bit  of  exercise.  I  thought  of  you,  as  I  swung  a  left  to 
the  beggar's  point.  I  remembered  how  you  handled 
the  Manilla  gentleman  who  kicked  a  jinrikisha  boy 
into  the  creek  at  Tokio." 

"Bruiser!"  murmured  Robert  delightedly. 

"He  would  have  bruised  me  if  I  hadn't  got  in  first," 
said  Dick  seriously.  "He  was  just  the  kind  of  fellow 
that  makes  you  understand  why  they  build  the  prison 
walls  so  thick — a  loafer — a  never-work — a  not-worth- 
whiler;  he  came  into  a  little  mission  room  where  we 
were  trying  to  fill  forty  small  stomachs  with  the  first 
wholesome  food  they  had  set  their  eyes  on,  and  he 
was  rude  to  one  of  the  little  Sisters — the  one  whom 


THE  TOUCH  OF  A  CHILD 219 

you  would  have  thought  no  living  soul  would  have 
wronged  by  a  look.  He  wanted  food,  he  said,  and  he 
would  have  snatched  it  from  the  mouth  of  the 
youngest  kiddy  there  rather  than  go  out  and  work 
for  it.  I  led  him  out,  coaxed  him  out,  and  shut  the 
door  so  that  the  noise  might  be  kept  from  those  inside. 
.  .  .  He  could  hit,  mark  you!  And  he  crossed  me 
with  a  beautiful  left  before  I  knew  what  was  happen- 
ing. He  told  his  friends  afterward  that  I  had  no 
business  to  be  a  parson,  and  when  he  had  fully  recov- 
ered he  was  a  different  man  in  many  respects — quite 
meek,  and  willing  to  try  his  hand  at  any  sort  of  work 
that  might  happen  along.  He  finished  up  by  washing 
the  dishes  for  us,  and  he  begged  the  little  Sister's 
pardon  like  a  man  before  he  went  away,  and  offered 
his  services  as  an  escort  whenever  she  should  be  walk- 
ing through  slumland  of  a  night.  .  .  .  O  Mori  San, 
I've  talked  so  much  that  I've  grown  hungry  again." 

And  Mori  was  at  his  side  in  an  instant,  because  she 
wanted  him  to  hurry  the  meal  in  order  that  he  might 
begin  a  story  that  should  be  her  very  own.  They  had 
a  merry  evening,  those  three,  and  when  the  stories 
were  told,  and  the  lids  began  to  droop  over  the  large 
eyes,  there  was  the  semblance  of  a  quarrel  between  the 
two  big  fellows  on  a  question  of  privilege — who 
should  carry  the  child  to  bed.  It  ended  by  their  both 
going,  and  as  they  came  away  from  the  room  on  tip- 
toe, each  was  glad  of  the  darkness. 

Down  in  the  study,  the  two  old  friends  smoked, 
and  talked,  and  smoked,  until  they  could  barely  dis- 
tinguish each  other  through  the  blue  haze.  Jean's 
name  wasn't  mentioned  once.  And  toward  the  end : 


220  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"It's  done  me  a  world  of  good  to  see  you  again, 
Dick,"  said  Robert,  in  a  half  whisper.  "We've  been 
passing  through  a  somewhat  anxious  time — the  firm, 
I  mean." 

Dick  nodded  sympathetically. 

"Money  is  very  tight  just  now." 

"I  have  good  reason  to  know  that,"  said  Dick. 
"But  I  thought  that  if  anyone  was  in  a  position 

"There  you  go !  Everyone  seems  to  have  that  idea 
in  their  heads.  I  blame  the  newspapers  for  it.  I 
returned  from  the  Far  East  in  a  whirl  of  romance— 
from  log  house  to  white  palace  sort  of  thing,  with 
millions  lying  to  my  credit." 

"You  didn't  work  your  passage  back  on  a  tramp 
steamer,  Robert." 

"I  might  have  come  back  a  millionaire  if  I  hadn't 
been  so  influenced  by  you." 

"Now  we're  going  to  quarrel!  Where  do  I  come 
in?" 

"Do  you  remember  that  night  at  Sendai  when  I  was 
fool  enough  to  tell  you  about  the  coal,  and " 

"You  didn't  touch  it?" 

"No" — regretfully — "I  allowed  myself  to  be  talked 
out  of  it  by  you." 

"Well  done,  Dick  Morrow !  You  can  exercise  some 
influence,  no  matter  what  your  critics  may  say." 

"It  was  the  chance  of  a  lifetime,"  said  Robert,  "and 
I  threw  it  away." 

"And  yet  they  tell  me  that  in  something  like  seven 
years  you  must  have  accumulated  a  large  fortune." 

"Half  of  it  is  sunk  in  the  firm  of  MacWhinnie 


THE  TOUCH  OF  A  CHILD 


Brothers,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  this  Chilian  contract 
coming  through,  I  should  have  begun  to  ask  myself 
serious  questions.  We're  terribly  short  of  capital, 
and  no  one  seems  overanxious  to  come  in." 

"I'm  not  quick  at  figures,  old  boy,  but  if  you  put  in 
only  half  -  " 

Robert  shook  his  head. 

"The  other  half  is  hers,  Dick,"  he  said  quietly;  "I 
wouldn't  touch  it  —  no,  not  if  it  could  save  the  firm 
from  disaster.  It's  well  invested,  every  penny  of  it, 
and  that  is  the  one  secret  that  I  keep  from  —  from  the 
firm." 

Dick's  eyes  were  smoldering  behind  the  tobacco 
haze. 

"But  why  keep  it  secret?"  he  said  slowly,  and  as 
though  he  didn't  require  an  answer.  "Your  brains  ac- 
quired the  money  —  you  performed  wonders  out  yon- 
der —  and  from  what  I  hear  you  have  behaved  hand- 
somely to  the  members  of  your  family." 

Robert's  low  laugh  had  in  it  the  faintest  suspicion 
of  hysteria  —  behind  the  broad  open  face  a  thousand 
doubts  and  fears  were  at  war  with  each  other. 

"I've  done  all  I  could  in  the  circumstances,"  he  said 
jerkily;  "I  might  have  done  more  if  —  if  something 
hadn't  happened."  He  stopped,  at  a  loss  for  words 
that  would  rightly  express  his  feelings  and  yet  hide 
his  secret  from  the  only  man  in  the  world  that  he 
could  call  "friend."  He  rose  from  his  chair,  and 
paced  the  floor  behind  Dick,  so  that  the  nervous  work- 
ing of  the  facial  muscles  should  not  betray  him.  "Dick, 
old  fellow,"  he  said,  in  a  deep  whisper,  "you  under- 


222  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

stand  most  things,  but  you  can't  feel  the  grip  of  a 
child — the  grip  on  the  heart." 

"No,"  said  Dick,  removing  his  pipe  from  his  lips 
and  staring  hard  at  the  firebars. 

Robert  leaned  over  the  back  of  the  chair  and 
gripped  a  forearm. 

"I'm  sorry  I  said  that,  Dick,"  he  said,  and  there 
was  a  break  in  his  voice.  "I  know  what  you  lost." 

And  back  again  to  the  restless  pacing. 

"The  child  has  made  so  much  difference,"  he  said. 
"There  was  a  time  when  all  my  hopes  were  centered 
in  the  family — I  wanted  to  do  so  much  for  them,  be- 
cause— because  when  I  was  a  kiddy,  Dick,  the  old 
people  had  to  fight  hard  to  keep  body  and  soul  to- 
gether. I've  been  able  to  do  a  little  for  them — I  be- 
lieve that  they're  comfortable — but  I  should  like  to 
have  done  more.  But  Mori  came,  and  you  can't  im- 
agine the  hold  she  has  upon  me.  She's  a  wonderful 
child,  Dick." 

"Beautiful,"  said  Dick,  and  his  eyes  were  full. 

"So  quaint  in  her  ways;  she's  almost  womanly  in 
her  childhood.  Out  yonder — and  here — she  has  filled 
my  life  so  completely.  I  may  come  home,  tired  out, 
and  feeling  that  a  great  many  things  are  vain,  but 
when  she  curls  up  on  my  knee  and  we  fall  to  telling 
stories,  I — I  .  .  .  your  pipe's  gone  out,  Dick.  Let  me 
tell  you  about  this  contract  we've  secured." 

Dick  half  turned  in  his  chair. 

"I  don't  like  to  think  that  you've  worried  about  the 
child,  Robert,"  he  said  gently;  "is  there  anything  that 
I  can  do?" 

"I'm  not  worried" — doubt fu!1y — "but,  as  I  was  go- 


THE  TOUCH  OF  A  CHILD 223 

ing  to  say,  there  are  times  when  I  feel  what  most — 
most  fathers  must  feel — that  when  they're  gone — the 
fathers,  I  mean — the  child — or  the  children,  as  the 
case  may  be — will  never  again  get  the  same  kind  of 
sympathy.  Do  you  follow  ?" 

"Perfectly." 

"That's  why  I  wish  to  make  certain,  so  far  as  a  man 
can  make  certain — that  Mori  shall  not  be  handicapped 
by  lack  of  means.  I'm  going  to  have  her  thoroughly 
educated — she  must  be  sent  to  the  Continent,  although 
I  hate  to  think  of  the  day  when  it  will  be  necessary  to 
part  with  her — I  dare  say  I  shall  be  catching  every 
second  boat  across  the  Channel ;  I  hope  to  make  a  lady 
of  her,  and  to  provide  for  her  in  so  liberal  a  way  that 
she  shall  never  feel  any  sense  of  handicap.  .  .  .  That's 
all,  Dick,  and  I'll  thank  you  not  to  interfere  with  my 
plans  by  urging  me  to  give  the  world  greater  credit 
for  kindness  than  is  due.  I  know  something  about  the 
world." 

"No  one  could  help  loving  Mori,  Robert." 

"I've  tried  to  believe  that,  Dick,  but  I'm  not  going 
to  take  the  risk.  There!  We'll  change  the  subject. 
I  want  to  hear  all  about  yourself — what  you've  been 
doing,  and  what  you're  going  to  do  in  the  future." 

"I've  told  you  practically  everything,  my  dear  boy. 
At  present,  I'm  slumming,  and  enjoying  it;  possibly, 
before  long,  I  shall  be  scenting  the  old  aroma  of  spices 
and  swamps,  and  slip  down  to  the  docks  before  day- 
break." 

Robert  went  back  to  his  chair. 

"I  wish  I  could  persuade  you  to  stay  with  me,"  he 
said  wistfully,  "but  I  know  that  independent  spirit  of 


THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 


yours,  and  sometimes  —  sometimes  I  can  feel  the  wan- 
derlust that  consumes  you.  .  .  -  About  this  slum- 
ming?" 

"The  old,  old  story,  Robert  —  I  want  money.  I  in- 
tended to  touch  you  to-night,  but  you've  headed  me 
off." 

"I  hope  I  shall  never  do  that.    What  is  it  this  time  ?" 

"Breakfasts  for  three  or  four  hundred  kiddies." 

Robert  laughed  quietly. 

"The  same  old  Dick.  Write  Mori  and  me  down 
for  as  much  as  you  require." 

"On  one  condition:  that  you  come  along  to  see 
how  well  your  money  has  been  spent,  and  how  it  is  ap- 
preciated." 

"Appreciation  means  a  lot  these  days  —  we'll  come." 

"You'll  bring  Mori?" 

"She  would  love  to  play  the  hostess.  Bless  your 
heart,  she  would  talk  about  it  for  months  !" 

Dick  gripped  the  other's  hand. 

"I'm  a  splendid  beggar,  Robert  —  eh  ?" 

"The  finest  in  the  world." 

"And  you're  a  splendid  giver.''1 


CHAPTER   VI 

SISTER   MARGARET 

1TOLD  them,"  said  Dick— he  and  Robert  and 
Mori  were  driving  through  the  slushy  streets  to 
the  mission  hall  where  the  breakfast  was  to  be 
held — '"I  told  them  the  other  night  that  you  were  a 
sort  of  jinni,  and  that  probably  when  they  were  half- 
way through  the  meal  you  would  drop  through  the 
roof,  or  slide  through  a  window,  bringing  with  you  an 
attendant  fairy.  It's  a  pity  you're  getting  so  fat — we 
might  have  arranged  a  little  surprise  for  them  on 
those  lines.  Poor  little  beggars !  They  know  so  little 
of  fairyland." 

They  were  early.  None  of  the  other  workers  had 
arrived,  but  there  was  a  queue  of  two  or  three  hun- 
dred gutter  sparrows  stretching  from  one  end  of  the 
street  to  the  other.  It  was  a  bitterly  cold  morning, 
and  most  of  the  children  had  taken  off  their  caps  and 
shawls  and  were  standing  on  them  to  warm  their  bare 
toes.  As  the  cab  came  along,  Dick  was  recognized, 
and  a  yell  of  delight  swept  along  the  ragged  line. 

"They've  half  an  hour  to  wait,  but  we'll  get  them 
inside,"  said  Dick ;  and  when  the  doors  of  the  mission 
house  were  thrown  open,  Robert  took  off  his  coat 
and  helped  to  arrange  the  tables,  while  little  Mori 
went  among  the  "sparrows"  with  all  the  self-assur- 

225 


226  THE  HONOR  OF  PUS  HOUSE 

ance  of  Dick  himself.  A  little  Irish  priest  came  in 
while  the  work  of  preparation  was  going  on,  and  with 
a  cheery  "Good  morning"  to  Dick,  and  a  nod  for  the 
visitors,  he  turned  up  the  sleeves  of  his  cassock  and 
helped  to  lay  the  tables.  After  a  few  minutes,  two 
young  women — Dick  addressed  them  as  Sisters — ar- 
rived at  the  hall,  and  lost  no  time  in  getting  to  work. 

"Hurry  up,"  Robert  whispered  to  his  friend,  "these 
poor  little  beggars  are  simply  dying  to  fall  upon  the 
grub.  Where  on  earth  did  you  find  them?" 

"We  shan't  keep  them  long,"  said  Dick  cheerily, 
and,  raising  his  voice,  called  to  one  of  the  young 
women:  "Are  you  nearly  ready,  Sister?"  he  in- 
quired. 

She  came  over  to  where  he  was  at  work,  and  her 
whisper,  overheard  by  Robert,  left  him  undecided  what 
to  do.  He  was  trembling,  and  constantly  glanced  at 
the  door. 

"Nearly  ready,"  said  Dick  .  .  .  "here,  Robert,  give 
me  a  hand  with  this  urn.  I  expected  one  or  two  of 
my  pugilistic  friends  here  this  morning.  They  prom- 
ised to  act  as  waiters.  I  shall  have  to  talk  to  them 
very  sternly  when  they  do  arrive,  and  .  .  .  Ah !  here's 
the  little  Sister  I  told  you  about,  Robert,"  and  he 
rushed  away  to  greet  Margaret  D render,  all  snow  and 
smiles. 

Robert,  white-faced  and  trembling,  called  sharply  to 
Mori,  but  she  was  at  the  other  end  of  a  long  table  in 
the  center  of  the  hall,  coaxing  a  shock-headed  boy  of 
six  to  "go  on  eating  as  if  no  one  was  looking."  Rob- 
ert was  in  his  shirt  sleeves;  his  hair  was  all  awry, 
through  lifting  grubby  children  into  their  places ;  and 


SISTER  MARGARET 227 

the  little  priest  was  by  his  side,  clasping  his  hands  and 
murmuring  a  blessing. 

"Robert !"  Dick  cried,  and  he  was  compelled  to  raise 
his  eyes  to  meet  hers.  She  was  stronger  than  he,  for 
her  embarrassment  was  gone.  She  came  forward  with 
Dick's  arm  through  hers,  and  not  until  she  was  stand- 
ing in  front  of  Robert  did  she  say  to  the  big-hearted 
Morrow:  "We  are  not  strangers — Mr.  MacWhinnie 
and  I." 

"Bless  me !" — and  Dick's  arms  dropped  to  his  sides. 
"I  thought  I  was  going  to  give  you  as  big  a  surprise 
as  I  hoped  to  give  the  children,  for  this,  my  old  friend 
Robert,  is  the  jinni  I  told  you  about." 

She  was  wonderfully  brave  in  those  few  minutes, 
meeting  his  eyes  with  beautiful  calm — as  though  they 
were  friends,  but  nothing  more.  And  when  she  said 
to  him,  "It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  do  this  for  the 
children,"  her  voice  didn't  shake  in  the  slightest. 

He  made  no  reply.  He  could  not  trust  himself  to 
speak.  He  hardly  dared  meet  her  steady  gaze,  lest 
the  pain  of  subterfuge  should  become  so  acute  that, 
ignoring  everything  and  everybody  around  them,  he 
should  cry  out  the  words  that  had  been  fighting  for 
expression  through  ten  weary  years. 

"And  so  you're  not  strangers?"  Dick  was  survey- 
ing them  both.  "Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  that;  and  if 
I  were  you,  Sister  Margaret,  I  should  develop  the 
friendship,  because  Robert,  here,  has  a  soft  heart,  and 
is  always  approachable  when  you  have  a  scheme  of 
this  sort  in  hand.  But,  tell  me,  Sister,  have  you 


seen- 


228  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

And  this  time  Robert  had  to  turn  his  head  away, 
lest  he  should  cry  out  to  Dick,  "Don't!"  But  Mori 
came  up  to  them  at  that  moment,  an  empty  dish  in 
each  hand,  and  a  plea  on  her  lips  for  the  shock-headed 
boy,  who  had  finished  three  helpings,  so  she  said,  and 
was  equal  to  another,  if  he  kept  his  eyes  shut. 

Margaret  took  the  empty  dishes  from  the  child.  It 
seemed  to  Robert  that  there  was  just  a  single  second  of 
hesitation — then,  she  drew  Mori  to  her,  and  kissed 
her  with  a  warmth  that  could  not  be  misunderstood. 
Years  afterward,  the  memory  of  that  scene  was  fresh 
in  Robert's  mind,  and  not  only  the  scene,  but  all  that 
it  conjured  up.  His  sensitive  mind  could  read  hers. 
He  could  feel  the  pain  that  she  must  have  felt,  if  only 
for  a  second.  But  her  courage  was  so  great  that  in 
no  way,  not  even  by  a  quiver  of  the  eyelids,  did  she 
show  how  poignant  the  occasion  had  been. 

The  breakfast  was  finished.  The  little  priest  led 
the  gathering  in  grace.  And  then  came  the  parting. 
Robert  had  to  return  to  the  works.  Dick  was  going 
to  take  Mori  home.  Margaret  would  remain  behind 
with  the  other  Sisters,  to  clear  up  the  tables  and  repack 
the  crockery.  Dick  accompanied  his  friend  to  the 
cab,  and  as  he  opened  the  door  he  said  ecstatically: 
"I  wish  you  knew  more  of  her,  Robert.  She's  one  of 
those  women  who  make  the  world  all  the  better  for 
their  having  lived  in  it." 

And  just  before  the  cab  rolled  away,  Robert,  lean- 
ing forward,  saw  her  standing  in  the  doorway  of  the 
mission  hall.  It  was  as  though  she  couldn't  let  him 
go  without  another  look — as  though  she  were  inviting 


SISTER  MARGARET  229 

him  to  say  something — as  though  the  courage  and  re- 
serve and  apparent  indifference  were  weakening. 

He  fell  back  against  the  cushions  of  the  cab  and 
closed  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE  DIVIDED   HOUSE 

TWO  months  had  passed  since  the  first  of  a  series 
of  breakfasts  to  poor  children  was  given  in  the 
mission  hall.  And  now  the  moment  of  crisis 
had  come  at  the  works.  An  ultimatum  was  to  be  pre- 
sented, and,  although  in  the  conceiving,  or,  rather,  the 
considering,  of  it — for  the  conception  was  Thomas's — 
Jamie  and  David  had  been  fired  with  a  certain  amount 
of  enthusiasm  and  ambition,  there  was  a  painful  si- 
lence now  that  the  task  was  to  be  entered  upon. 

The  two  younger  brothers  arrived  early  at  the  office 
that  morning,  and  not  until  Thomas,  gaunt  and  deadly 
earnest  as  usual,  made  his  appearance  were  they  able 
to  address  each  other  calmly.  Neither  of  them  had 
much  relish  for  the  task,  although  they  were  quite 
ready  to  see  eye  to  eye  with  Thomas,  especially  when 
he  had  taunted  them  with  their  subordinacy.  Thomas 
took  up  his  position  near  the  fireplace.  Standing  with 
hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  he  looked  at  the  other 
two  as  though  calculating  their  moral  strength;  then 
he  said  tentatively : 

"I  suppose  they'll  be  knighting  him  before  long. 
He's  headed  another  fund  with  a  hundred." 

David  pretended  to  open  a  newspaper  and  glance  at 
its  contents,  but  he  dropped  it  impatiently,  irritably, 

230 


THE    DIVIDED  HOUSE 231 

and,  looking  at  Thomas,  said  with  some  acerbity: 
"You  quite  understand  that  this  has  got  to  be  done 
gently?  I  wouldn't  have  the  old  fellow  upset  for 
anything." 

"You  can  go  out,  if  you  like,"  said  Thomas.  "Jamie 
and  I  are  not  fighting  only  your  battles." 

Jamie  turned  to  him.  "You're  going  to  do  the 
talking,  Thomas,  I  suppose?  I  confess  that  I  don't 
like  the  idea  of  meeting  his  eyes  when  he  has  the  truth 
thrown  at  him." 

For  days  and  weeks  Jamie  had  been  nursing  the 
ultimatum  outlined  by  Thomas,  rehearsing  it,  reason- 
ing it,  arguing  with  it;  he  had  felt  the  justice  of  it, 
so  he  believed,  but  now,  as  the  critical  moment  ap- 
proached, he  felt  very  uncomfortable.  If  he  could 
have  relegated  the  whole  of  the  business  to  the  more 
voluble  Thomas — if,  without  loss  of  dignity,  he  could 
have  left  his  younger  brother  to  face  the  music  with 
Thomas — he  wouldn't  have  hesitated  to  do  so. 

All  three  started,  perceptibly,  as  the  door  opened 
and  closed.  Jamie  and  David  glanced  furtively  at  the 
rebel  leader.  He  was  studiously  examining  the  ceil- 
ing. Robert  had  reached  the  center  of  the  room  be- 
fore anyone  spoke.  He  looked  from  under  his  brows 
at  his  younger  brothers,  as  for  an  explanation  of 
Thomas's  presence.  Then  he  said  to  the  first-born : 

"It's  a  long  while  since  we  met,  Thomas.  How's 
all  with  you?" 

"Thank  you  for  inquiring,"  said  Thomas,  not  un- 
pleasantly. "I  never  felt  better  in  my  life.  It  is  a 
long  time  since  we  met ;  and  I  don't  forget  that  last 
meeting." 


232  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Again  Robert  looked  at  his  younger  brothers. 

"Has  MacGowan  been  in  yet?"  he  inquired  of 
Jamie. 

"I  haven't  seen  him,"  was  the  reply. 

"Come,  boy,"  said  Robert  reproachfully,  "it's  after 
his  time  with  yesterday's  report.  Hasn't  he  had  any 
orders  for  the  day  ?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  said  Jamie,  a  suggestion  of 
hauteur  in  his  voice. 

"What's  wrong?"  asked  Robert  sharply.  "Has  this 
anything  to  do  with  your  visit,  Thomas?" 

"It  has,"  said  Thomas,  stirring  himself.  "There's 
going  to  be  a  change,  Robert.  Jamie  and  David  have 
deputed  me  to  lay  the  facts  before  you  in  a  convincing 
way." 

Robert  hesitated  only  a  moment.  The  clock  on  the 
mantel-shelf  struck  the  hour. 

"You've  chosen  an  inconvenient  time,"  he  said  terse- 
ly. "There's  work  to  be  done ;  when  it's  finished,  we'll 
endeavor  to  find  time  to  listen  to  you."  He  turned  on 
his  heel.  "Jamie,  I  want  to  see  MacGowan  at  once." 

Jamie  commenced  to  roll  a  cigarette. 

"You'd  better  hear  Thomas  through,"  he  said,  with 
some  show  of  spirit.  "I've  been  taking  orders  too 
long." 

The  big,  patient  eyes  were  appealing  for  enlighten- 
ment, but  there  was  strength  and  determination  in  the 
deep  voice  as  he  swung  round  on  David  and  said  : 

"I  want  to  look  at  those  quantities  your  department 
has  been  getting  out.  You're  wasting  a  lot  of  valuable 
time  standing  there." 

"Wasting  time  and  manhood,"  said  David  correc- 


THE  DIVIDED  HOUSE 233 

tively,  shooting  a  glance  of  inquiry  at  Thomas,  who 
was  thoughtfully  stroking  the  red  beard.  "Like  Jamie, 
I'm  tired  of  being  bullied,  and  I've  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  something  must  be  done,  and  done 
quickly." 

"Very  well,"  said  Robert,  with  wonderful  calm. 
"I'll  speak  to  your  head  clerk."  He  walked  to  the 
door. 

"Stay,"  said  Thomas,  holding  up  a  hand,  "there's 
something  I  wish  you  to  hear." 

"It'll  keep,"  Robert  retorted;  "we're  very  busy  in 
these  works  just  now,  Thomas,  and  there's  too  much 
responsibility  to  leave  anything  to  chance." 

"It  will  not  keep,  Robert,  so  don't  try  to  shut  me  up 
in  that  manner.  I'm  not  a  boy." 

.  Robert  took  two  strides  toward  the  eldest  brother, 
but  it  was  not  a  threatening  movement ;  and  there  was 
nothing  harsh  in  his  voice  as  he  said : 

"If  I  say  it  will  keep,  it  will  keep,  Thomas.  And 
I'm  the  senior  partner  in  the  firm  of  MacWhinnie 
Brothers.  Understand  that." 

David  was  near  the  door;  he  must  have  fancied  that 
Thomas  was  vacillating,  and  that  here  was  a  chance  to 
reveal  his  courage.  He  placed  his  hand  on  the  knob 
of  the  door,  as  though  he  would  prevent  a  retreat. 

"Look  here,  Robert,"  he  said  desperately,  "we've 
been  talking  things  over — Jamie,  Thomas,  and  I." 

"Talking  what  over?"  It  required  a  great  deal  of 
provocation  to  rouse  Robert,  but  they  were  perilously 
near  the  achievement;  his  brows  were  lowered,  his 
mouth  was  set  in  a  firm,  straight  line,  and  if  they  had 
dared  to  look  down  at  his  hands  they  would  have  seen 


234  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

that  they  were  clenched — the  nails  were  biting  into 
the  palms. 

"Our  position — our  position  in  this  firm,"  said  Da- 
vid waveringly. 

"You  have  no  position  in  this  firm — at  least,  not  a 
position  that  entitles  you  to  dictate  to  me." 

Jamie  leaped  into  the  breach. 

"I  agree,"  he  exclaimed,  "and  it's  because  we  have 
no  position  that  we've  made  up  our  minds  to  get  out 
of  it,  unless  there  is  some  alteration." 

Robert  took  the  blow  with  only  a  slight  paling  of 
the  cheeks. 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Jamie,"  he  said  weakly; 
"they're  strange  words  from  you." 

Thomas  walked  to  the  window  and  drummed  fitfully 
on  the  pane. 

"You've  brought  this  on  yourself,  Robert,"  he  said, 
in  a  sing-song  voice,  and  throwing  his  words  over  his 
shoulder.  "The  boys  are  quite  justified  in  the  attitude 
they  are  taking  up." 

"At  your  instigation,  Thomas?" 

"That's  as  it  may  be.  I'm  the  eldest  of  the  family, 
and  it's  only  natural  that  they  should  turn  to  me  for 
guidance.  Don't  think  for  a  minute  that  the  decision 
has  been  come  to  without  careful  thought.  The  boys 
realize  that  they  owe  something  to  you." 

"Oh !  they  realize  that,  do  they  ?"  And  Robert  slow- 
ly inclined  his  head,  as  if  in  acknowledgment. 

"Just  as  you  owe  something  to  them,"  Thomas 
added. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Robert,  with  a  weary  sigh, 
"that  I  owe  something  to  everybody.  But  since  you've 


THE    DIVIDED  HOUSE 235 

commenced,  Thomas,  you  may  go  on.  If  work  has 
been  at  a  standstill  for  half  an  hour,  another  half 
won't  make  very  much  difference.  What  is  it  that 
David  and  Jamie  want?  What  have  you  put  into 
their  minds?" 

"I've  put  nothing  into  their  minds  that  wasn't  there 
already,"  said  Thomas,  affecting  dignity.  "To-day, 
I'm  only  their  spokesman.  They've  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  you're  not  treating  them  fairly." 

"And  what  is  your  own  personal  complaint?" 

"I,"  said  Thomas,  with  something  like  a  flourish, 
"I  never  allow  personal  matters  to  overshadow  the 
claims  of  the  great  unrepresented.  The  boys  have 
been  suffering  in  silence  for  a  long  while  now;  but 
they're  only  human,  and  you  may  take  it  from  me, 
Robert,  that  their  grievances  have  extended  to  the  men 
in  the  yard.  The  day  will  come  when  you  will  find 
that  they  are  not  without  a  leader,  one  who  can  show 
them  the  folly  of  serfdom." 

"Once  again,"  said  Robert,  "I  ask  you — you,  David, 
and  you,  Jamie — what  is  it  that  you  really  wish  to  put 
before  me?  I  thought  that  we  were  getting  along  so 
splendidly " 

"And  yet,"  said  David,  a  little  bitterly,  "you  can't 
have  hidden  from  yourself  the  fact  that  we  have  made 
practically  no  progress  during  the  last  twelve  months. 
There  has  been  no  attempt  on  your  part  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  counsel  that  Jamie  and  I  were  in  a  position 
to  give." 

Robert's  sense  of  humor  overcame  the  anger  that 
was  seeking  expression. 

"Really,  David,"  he  said,  "I  had  no  idea  that  your 


236  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

mind  was  so  absorbed  by  the  potentialities  of  the  firm. 
Indeed,  I  was  beginning  to  believe  that  so  long  as  the 
wheels  went  round,  you  were  satisfied,  and  I  was  hop- 
ing that  the  day  would  come  when  you'd  realize  more 
fully  that  you  were  a  partner,  if  only  a  junior,  in  one 
of  the  most  talked-of  firms  on  the  river  to-day." 

"And  I  thank  you,"  said  David  superciliously,  "and 
may  I  suggest  that  if  you  went  into  the  world  of  men 
and  women  a  little  more  than  you  do — the  world  which 
you  are  hinting  I  go  into — you'd  have  a  better  appreci- 
ation of  the  needs  of  expansion.  Long  ago,  it  was  put 
to  you  that  if  we  had  more  capital  we  might  improve 
our  methods,  and  deserve  the  reputation  you  speak 
of." 

"Have  I  ever  said  anything  to  suggest  that  so  con- 
servative were  my  views " 

"A  little  more  capital,"  David  persisted;  "it  would 
have  meant  so  much  if  it  had  been  put  in  at  the  right 
time." 

Robert  had  great  difficulty  in  keeping  his  patience. 
He  felt  that  he  ought  to  put  down  his  foot  with  the 
determination  of  one  who  means  to  be  obeyed;  but 
he  was  not  certain  how  far  Thomas  had  eaten  into  the 
loyalty  of  the  two  younger  men.  In  argument  lay  the 
only  hope  of  an  amicable  settlement. 

"But  where  were  we  to  get  the  capital?"  he  asked. 
"I  agree  with  you  that  certain  improvements  might 
have  been  made  both  in  the  equipment  of  the  works 
and  the  conditions  of  the  men  who  are  on  our  pay 
sheet ;  but  the  first  axiom  you  have  to  appreciate  when 
you  commence  in  any  business  is  that  relating  to  the 


THE    DIVIDED  HOUSE 2371 

cutting  of  your  coat  according  to  the  cloth  at  your 
disposal." 

David  had  prepared  himself  for  this  line  of  argu- 
ment. It  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that 
Robert  should  urge  upon  them  that  it  was  his  money 
with  which  the  firm  was  started ;  but — • 

"We're  junior  partners,  Jamie  and  I,"  he  said; 
"we're  ready  to  admit  that  we  didn't  put  anything  into 
the  firm — save  brains,"  and  he  said  it  without  a  blush. 
"But  in  the  beginning  it  was  understood  that  if  we 
were  content  to  accept  a  salary  considerably  lower  than 
that  paid  to  some  of  your  under- foremen — it  was  un- 
derstood that  when  we  arrived  at  a  certain  point  there 
would  be  a  general  leveling  up — an  acknowledgment 
of  our  relative  positions.  What  has  been  the  result? 
Jamie  and  I  are  where  we  started.  The  whole  of  our 
time  is  given  to  working  out  estimates,  and  superin- 
tending a  crowd  of  clerks.  You  get  all  the  credit. 
You  get  everything.  You  ask  me  where  the  additional 
capital  is  to  come  from.  According  to  this  newspaper" 
— and  he  flung  one  on  the  table — "  'Robert  MacWhin- 
nie,  Esq.,  so  well  known  and  honored  for  his  char- 
itableness, is  the  donor  of  another  hundred'  to  a 
wretched  soup  kitchen,  or  something  of  the  sort.  Of 
course,  we  can't  expect  to  expand,  if  the  senior  part- 
ner insists  on  withholding  capital,  and  not  only  with- 
holding it,  but  preventing  fresh  capital  from  coming 
in." 

Robert's  face  assumed  a  pathetic  expression  as  he 
glanced  at  the  newspaper.  Obviously,  Dick  Morrow 
was  responsible  for  the  undesirable  publicity;  but, 


238  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

then,  he  had  never  urged  that  undesirability  upon  his 
old  friend. 

"I  wish  you'd  be  frank,  and  tell  me  what's  in  your 
minds,"  he  said  at  last,  holding  out  his  right  hand  in  a 
conciliatory  manner.  "I'm  willing  to  do  all  that's  pos- 
sible for  me  to  do ;  but  I  assure  you  there  are  reasons 
why  I,  personally,  cannot  put  in  any  more  capital.  My 
dear  boys" — and,  now,  it  was  the  generous-hearted 
Robert  again — "I  would  rather  have  parted  with — I 
don't  know  what — than  that  this  should  have  hap- 
pened. Why  didn't  you  come  to  me  in  the  first  place  ? 
Why  weren't  you  open " 

Thomas  made  a  movement  as  though  he  would  in- 
terrupt, and  Robert  turned  upon  him  quickly. 

"I'll  thank  you  to  remain  quiet,  Thomas,"  he  said, 
and  the  others  could  see  that  he  meant  it.  "You  are 
here  on  sufferance — and  I'm  sorry  to  have  to  say 
that.  These  family  quarrels  are  the  most  wretched 
things  imaginable.  I  tell  you,  without  any  hesitation, 

that  if  there  were  no  blood  ties  between  you  and 

»> 
me 

"You'd  order  me  out,  I  suppose?"  said  Thomas, 
with  the  semblance  of  a  sneer. 

"No,"  said  Robert,  "I  shouldn't  waste  words  on 
ordering  you  out.  .  .  .  Now,  boys" — and  he  turned 
again  to  David  and  Jamie — "you  must  realize  that 
you've  caught  me  at  a  most  inopportune  time.  You 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  the  very  existence  of  the 
firm  depends  on  the  successful  carrying  out  of  this 
Chilian  contract." 

"Which  has  to  be  completed  within  three  months 
from  date" — and  David  smiled  knowingly. 


THE  DIVIDED  HOUSE 239 

"Believe  me,"  said  Robert,  "the  date  was  not  kept 
from  you  or  Jamie  because  of  any  distrust.  It  was 
one  of  those  matters  on  which  I,  as  the  senior  partner, 
had  to  make  a  rapid  decision." 

"Well,  we  know,  so  there's  no  more  to  be  said  about 
it." 

"Oh,  yes  there  is,"  said  Robert,  "because  I  can  see, 
now,  that  you're  relying — that  Thomas  has  taught  you 
to  rely — on  the  knowledge  you've  gained — to  rely  on 
it  as  if  it  were  a  weapon  against  which  I  should  be 
helpless.  Well,  boys,  it'll  be  a  grand  victory  for  you. 
You've  cornered  me — let's  put  it  like  that.  I,  who 
have  tried  to  do  my  very  best  by  you  all.  Oh,  I'm 
not  complaining.  My  shoulders  are  broad  enough, 
and  always  have  been.  What  are  the  terms  of  the  ulti- 
matum ?" 

"It's  not  an  ultimatum,  Robert,"  said  David.  "If 
you  had  been  more  observant,  you'd  have  seen  this 
coming  along  for  months  and  months." 

"No,"  said  Robert,  "what  you  mean  is  that  if  I'd 
regarded  you  as  a  workman,  instead  of  a  brother, 
suspicion  would  have  come  naturally.  .  .  .  There  are 
going  to  be  no  alterations  in  our  methods  yet  awhile. 
There !  I  have  given  you  an  answer.  What  have  you 
got  to  say  to  it  ?" 

"We  had  already  made  up  our  minds  to  that  an- 
swer. We're  going  to  leave  you " 

"In  the  lurch." 

"You're  too  sentimental,  Robert.  I  may  tell  you 
that  Jamie  and  I  are  men  of  the  world,  and  quite  equal 
to  that  subterfuge." 

"I  can  fill  your  places  within  twenty-four  hours," 


240  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

said  Robert,  and,  now,  sternness  had  taken  the  place  of 
conciliation.  "What  have  you  to  say  to  that?" 

"It  doesn't  interest  me  in  the  slightest,"  David  re- 
plied. ".  .  .  There  will  be  some  sort  of  a  settlement 
— you  won't  oppose  that,  of  course  ?  Under  the  terms 
of  our  agreements — and  we  have  to  thank  Thomas  for 
the  precaution  that  brought  those  agreements  into 
existence- — we  are  entitled  to  a  proportionate  valua- 
tion." 

"I  can  give  you  the  figures  now,"  said  Robert,  with- 
out hesitation.  "According  to  the  agreements,  you 
are  entitled  to  about  six  thousand  each,  and  those 
amounts  are  based  on  the  profits  that  have  accrued 
under  contracts  completed  during  the  last  two  years. 
I'll  see  my  solicitors  to-night.  Since  you  are  intent  on 
driving  a  bargain,  I'll  fall  in  with  you ;  but  it  shall  be 
a  hard  one.  There's  no  need  to  stay  in  the  yard  one 
minute  longer  than  you  desire.  That's  finished  the 
sorry  business.  Now,  let  me,  as  a  brother,  ask  you, 
what  do  you  intend  to  do  in  the  future?" 

"Look  here,  Robert,"  said  Jamie  falteringly,  and 
as  though  he  were  ashamed  of  the  part  that  he  had 
played  in  the  proceedings,  "when  this  subject  was  put 
up  to  me,  I  laid  it  down  that  we  shouldn't  overlook 
what  you  have  done  for  the  family " 

"That's  all  right,  Jamie,"  said  Robert.  "It's  settled, 
now.  There's  no  need  to  reopen  it.  As  I  said  just 
now,  I'm  only  sorry  that  you  didn't  take  me  more 
fully  into  your  confidence.  But  I'm  used  to  shocks. 
Sometimes  I  think  I've  borne  so  many  that  I've  be- 
come impervious  to  them.  I  wish  you  well,  Jamie. 
But  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 


THE  DIVIDED  HOUSE 241 

They  told  him,  in  a  hesitant  manner,  that  having 
been  promised  a  certain  amount  of  support,  financial 
and  otherwise,  they  intended  to  go  to  the  Clyde,  there 
to  open  a  small  yard  of  their  own.  They  went  so  far 
as  to  hint  at  the  amount  of  capital  they  expected,  and 
he  offered  no  criticism,  although  he  could  foresee  the 
end.  In  truth,  they  were  to  be  but  the  representatives 
of  a  syndicate,  to  be  registered  as  the  Scottish  Pinion 
Company.  And  when  the  story  was  told  they  broke 
into  lighter  spirits,  believing  that  already  they  had 
repaired  the  broken  road.  Jamie  said,  with  some  de- 
gree of  unctuousness : 

"I'm  glad  that  you  agree  with  us,  Robert,  that  am- 
bition cannot  be  held  in  check.  I'm  glad  that  you  are 
not  disposed  to  place  any  difficulties  in  our  way.  If 
I  had  thought  that  we  were  to  part  bad  friends,  I 
shouldn't  have  had  anything  to  do  with  this.  It  will 
be  some  time  before  the  changes  take  place,  and  you 
may  rest  assured  that  we  shall  do  our  very  best  to  see 
that  you're  not  let  down " 

Robert  stopped  him  by  holding  out  a  hand  as  in 
farewell. 

"Thank  you,  Jamie,"  he  said  curtly,  yet  not  without 
pleasantness,  "but  the  needs  of  this  firm  are  such  that 
no  time  must  be  allowed  to  elapse  before  the  changes 
take  place.  I  will  wish  you  good  morning,  and  the 
best  of  luck;  and  you,  David" — he  held  out  his  hand 
to  the  younger  brother. 

For  a  moment,  they  were  riveted  to  their  places  by 
stupefaction.  Then  David  said : 

"You're  not  serious,  Robert  ?" 

"There's  work  to  be  done,"  said  Robert  briskly, 


THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 


"and  I  have  no  time  to  be  other  than  serious.  .  .  . 
And  good-by  to  you,  Thomas." 

Thomas  urged  the  younger  brothers  to  the  door, 
whispering  to  them  as  he  went  He  looked  around 
just  before  leaving  the  room. 

"As  a  brother,  Robert,"  he  said  —  'Robert  had  turned 
his  back,  and  one  elbow  was  resting  on  the  mantel- 
shelf —  "as  a  brother,  Robert,  it's  my  duty  to  warn 
you  that  each  succeeding  day  brings  more  enlighten- 
ment to  the  minds  of  the  workers.  There  is  work  to 
be  done,  and  it  must  be  done  quickly,  if  you  set  any 
store  by  loyalty." 

The  door  closed.  For  a  long  while  Robert  remained 
standing  near  the  fireplace,  his  face  turned  to  the  win- 
dow. He  fought  a  great  fight  with  himself  in  that 
time  ;  and  when  he  felt  brave  enough  to  look  another 
man  in  the  face,  he  rang  for  a  messenger. 

"Ask  Mr.  MacGowan  if  he  will  be  kind  enough  to 
come  here  at  once,"  he  said. 

And  when  MacGowan  appeared,  tall,  grimy,  dour, 
Robert,  without  turning  round,  said  to  him  : 

"There  are  going  to  be  some  changes  here,  Mac- 
Gowan. Mr.  James  and  Mr.  David  are  leaving  us, 
to  take  over  a  new  concern.  .  .  .  How's  the  work 
going?" 

"First-rate,  sir,"  said  MacGowan.  "We  shall  be 
through  before  the  end  of  three  months." 

"And  how  are  the  men  —  their  feelings,  I  mean  ?" 

MacGowan  stroked  his  chin. 

"I  was  going  to  speak  to  ye  about  that,  sir,"  he 
said.  "And  if  ye'll  pardon  me  mentioning  it,  the 


THE  DIVIDED  HOUSE 243 

men  wad  be  a'  the  better  if  they  saw  less  o'  Mr. 
Thomas " 

"I  asked  you  a  straightforward  question,  Mac- 
Gowan,"  said  Robert  quickly,  "and  I  don't  pardon 
your  taking  liberties  of  any  sort." 

"I  was  on'y  going  to  say,  sir,  that  Mr.  Thomas  has 
the  run  of  the  yard " 

"Mr.  Thomas  has  every  right  to  enter  the  yard  or 
the  shops,  if  I  say  so,  MacGowan." 

"Ah,  weel !"  sighed  MacGowan,  and  braced  himself 
for  further  orders. 

"You  say  the  work  should  be  through  before  the 
end  of  three  months?" 

"If  we  progress  at  the  same  rate.  Ye  can  never 
depend  on  the  humor  o'  the  men." 

"We're  going  to  depend  on  it,  MacGowan,  and  this 
contract  must  be  through  within  three  months  from 
now.  Do  you  understand  that?" 

"I  can  on'y  answer  for  myself,  sir.  I  want  no  bet- 
ter master." 

"Then,  return  to  the  yard,  MacGowan,  and  let  it 
go  forth  that  if  this  contract  is  completed  by  the  time 
I  have  mentioned,  two  and  a  half  per  cent,  of  the 
profits  will  be  distributed  as  a  bonus  among  the  men. 
If  we  can't  have  loyalty  for  nothing,  we'll  pay  for  it." 


CHAPTER   VIII 
AT  "JARROWSIDE" 

EVERYTHING  was  done  with  dispatch ;  the  dis- 
solution of  partnership  was  accomplished  much 
more  speedily  than  the  younger  brothers  had 
imagined  would  be  the  case.  Thomas  had  prepared 
them  for  arguments  and  reproaches  which  even  he 
believed  to  be  natural  in  the  circumstances ;  but  Robert 
accepted  the  situation  with  calmness,  resignation,  and 
a  smile  of  encouragement  that  left  them  doubting  that 
they  had  come  out  of  the  battle  victorious.  There 
wasn't  the  slightest  trace  of  acrimony  in  his  demeanor 
when,  the  lawyers  having  set  their  seal  upon  the  new 
arrangement,  he  bade  them  good-by  and  good  luck; 
indeed,  he  said  he  almost  wished  they  had  come  to 
some  such  decision  earlier,  so  that  he  might  have  been 
able  to  give  them  a  substantial  start  in  the  new  enter- 
prise. He  begged  them  earnestly  to  apply  themselves 
to  the  demands  of  the  company  on  the  Clyde,  assuring 
them,  in  a  gentle,  generous  way,  that  only  by  personal 
endeavor  could  they  hope  to  achieve  success;  they 
must  not  place  too  much  reliance  on  the  capabilities  of 
whatever  manager  they  might  engage;  always,  they 
should  be  able  to  place  their  finger  on  a  weak  spot  in 
their  organization  without  having  to  await  a  report 
from  manager  or  foreman.  He  reminded  them  of 

244 


AT  "JARROWSIDE" 245 

their  youth — they  must  not  lose  heart  if  success  were 
coy  during  the  first  year.  And  if  they  were  ever  in 
need  of  his  advice,  they  had  only  to  write  to  him. 

He  did  not  speak  to  Thomas,  although  the  elder 
brother  kept  close  to  the  young  men  during  the  last 
day.  And  the  final  words  he  addressed  to  David  be- 
fore taking  leave  of  him  were : 

"This  firm  will  continue  as  'MacWhinnie  Brothers.' 
I  shall  miss  you  two,  sorely,  so  don't  forget  to  write." 
The  next  few  weeks  would  have  been  very  lonely 
for  him  had  it  not  been  for  Mori.  He  did  not  deem  it 
necessary  to  acquaint  her  with  what  had  happened — 
in  fact,  he  allowed  her  to  go  on  talking  about  Uncle 
David  and  Uncle  Jamie  as  though  they  were  still  at 
the  works — but  the  child  seemed  to  divine  that  some- 
thing had  happened,  or,  perhaps,  in  his  loneliness,  he 
derived  greater  joy  from  her  sympathy. 

New  appointments  were  made  at  the  works  without 
any  loss  of  time,  and  the  passing  of  the  junior  partners 
made  no  appreciable  difference  in  the  conduct  of  busi- 
ness. The  little  father,  learning  of  the  dissolution, 
wrote  to  express  his  and  Mrs.  MacWhinnie's  grati- 
tude for  the  fresh  start  he  was  giving  his  younger 
brothers.  It  was  easy  to  read  between  the  lines  of  that 
letter — the  young  men  had  led  the  father  to  believe 
that  they  had  merely  left  the  Thames  in  order  to  man- 
age a  new  concern  in  which  Robert  was  interested. 
Mr.  Donald  MacWhinnie  added  in  a  postscript  that  he 
had  not  yet  succeeded  in  "running  the  dairy  farm 
money  to  earth,"  but  he  was  hot  on  the  scent,  and 
Robert  might  expect  to  hear  from  him  any  day. 
Dick  Morrow  was  in  the  north  of  Ireland  during 


246  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

the  few  weeks  immediately  following  the  departure  of 
the  brothers,  and  the  first  intimation  that  Robert  re- 
ceived of  his  return  was  a  telephone  message  from  the 
riverside  house.  He  had  taken  the  liberty  of  lunching 
with  O  Mori  San  in  the  absence  of  her  father,  he  said, 
and  if  the  father  had  no  objection  he  was  going  to 
take  O  Mori  San  out  to  tea  that  afternoon.  They 
would  be  back  before  dinner.  He  did  not  say  that  he 
was  invited  to  Mr.  John  Drender's  house,  but  he  left 
a  note  for  Robert  should  he  arrive  home  before  their 
return. 

That  afternoon  at  "Jarrowside"  was  a  memorable 
one  for  the  child;  frequently,  she  had  inquired  of 
Dick  why  they  never  visited  the  lady  who  was  so 
sweet  to  her  at  the  slum  breakfast,  and  he  had  made 
her  many  promises.  On  this  afternoon,  he  had  occa- 
sion to  consult  Margaret  Drender  on  one  of  her  many 
charitable  interests,  and  Mori  had  pleaded  so  hard 
that  he  had  agreed  to  telephone  to  Robert  for  per- 
mission to  take  her  out.  "You  see,  we're  bound  to  ask 
daddy,"  he  told  her  gravely,  "else  he  might  come  back 
to  an  empty  house  and  imagine  that  someone  had  run 
off  with  you."  And  she  had  tickled  his  chin  with  the 
petals  of  a  flower,  asking  the  while :  "Who  would  run 
off  with  me,  silly  uncle  ?"  "I  would,"  he  had  told  her, 
and  he  said  it  very  seriously. 

Margaret  Drender  was  in  the  garden  when  they 
reached  "Jarrowside."  The  moment  they  passed 
through  the  gateway,  Mori  left  Dick's  side  and  raced 
across  the  lawn.  When  he  came  up,  Margaret's  right 
arm  was  around  the  child's  neck,  and  her  own  cheeks 
were  flushed  as  with  joy. 


AT  "J ARROW SIDE" 247 

her — stolen  her  for  the  afternoon," 
said  Dick,  wagging  a  finger  at  Mori,  "but  we've  given 
our  bond  that  we  shall  be  home  before  dinner.  .  .  . 
O  Mori  San,  my  fate  is  in  your  hands." 

And  O  Mori  San,  tightening  her  hold  of  Margaret's 
arm,  said,  with  a  shake  of  her  curls:  "Daddy  will 
know  where  we  are,  so  why  be  nervous  ?" 

Mr.  John  Drender,  grim  as  the  iron  on  which  he 
lived,  was  in  the  study,  nursing  a  crushed  toe.  Mar- 
garet introduced  Dick ;  Mori  introduced  herself :  "My 
name's  Mori — it  means  a  forest.  What's  yours?" 

The  old  man  gave  Dick  a  careful  look  over,  as  he 
himself  would  have  put  it.  Then,  pointing  to  the 
bandaged  foot :  "That's  through  not  relying  on  your 
men — thinking  they  couldn't  set  a  plate  without  your 
help.  Not  in  your  line.  Eh  ?" 

"No,"  said  Dick,  with  a  laugh;  he  expected  the 
usual  criticism  of  his  calling. 

Mr.  Drender  made  an  ear  trumpet  of  his  left  hand, 
then  asked,  with  brows  lowered : 

"Do  you  smoke  ?" 

"Like  a  chimney,"  said  Dick. 

"Fill  up,"  said  the  old  man.  "I  like  you.  Thought 
you  were  one  of  the  other  sort." 

Margaret  slipped  an  arm  around  Mori's  neck,  and 
they  went  out  of  the  study  to  superintend  the  making 
of  tea.  Dick  lit  his  pipe  and  commenced  to  read  John 
Drender's  face ;  John  Drender  had  read  his  already. 

"Been  through  the  works  yet?" 

Dick  shook  his  head. 

"Not  interested — eh?" 

"On  the  contrary " 


248  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Too  noisy — too  much  hammering  and  shouting?" 

"I  enjoy  anything  that  has  a  'punch.' ' 

"Punch?" 

"Go — action — movement. " 

"So  do  I.  Take  me  out  of  those  works,  and  I'm 
duller  than  an  undertaker's  mute." 

"I'm  aware  of  that." 

"How?" 

"You  keep  tapping  the  arm  rest  with  the  bowl  of 
your  pipe,  and  there's  a  sort  of  rhythm  about  the  tap- 
ping. .  .  .  D render  and  Masters  are  known  all  over 
the  world." 

The  iron-gray  head  bowed  an  acknowledgment. 

"We've  turned  out  some  fine  engineers,"  said  the 
old  man  proudly.  "Ye  should  meet  my  partner,  Jim 
Masters.  He's  not  one  of  the  praying  sort — you  know 
what  I  mean? — but  Jim  has  done  things — he's  made 
things — he  hasn't  buried  his  talent,  as  you  would  say." 

"I'm  a  personal  friend  of  Mr.  Robert  Mac- 
Whinnie." 

The  old  man  said  "Oh !"  and  kept  his  wrinkled  face 
set  in  a  frown  for  fully  thirty  seconds.  Then,  resum- 
ing the  tapping  on  the  arm  rest  of  the  chair,  he  said 
thoughtfully:  "Ye'll  not  find  many  better  engineers 
than  Robert  MacWhinnie." 

Dick  accepted  the  tribute  as  though  it  were  a  per- 
sonal one. 

"I'm  not  going  to  look  for  a  better,"  he  said,  with 
conviction. 

"He  made  his  start  with  Drender  and  Masters." 

"He  himself  told  me — and  with  pride." 

"He    did  well  abroad.     I  always  said  he  would." 


AT  "J  ARROW  SIDE" 249 

"He's  going  to  make  a  name  for  himself  at  home." 

Mr.  Drender  made  a  clicking  noise  in  his  throat. 

"Ay — if  his  family  will  let  him,"  he  said.  "Do  ye 
know  the  family,  Mr.  Morrow?" 

"Slightly,"  said  Dick. 

"Well,  that's  as  much  as  ye'll  need  to  know  them. 
.  .  .  I'm  sorry  for  the  lad." 

"Sorry,  Mr.  Drender?" 

"Ay,  sorry.  Reminds  me  of  a  man  I  once  saw  try- 
ing to  swim  across  the  Tyne  with  a  couple  of  weights 
tied  round  his  neck.  .  .  .  There's  never  more  than 
one  clever  lad  in  a  family,  and  his  cleverness  becomes 
a  curse  if  he's  afflicted  with  sentiment.  .  .  .  You 
know  that  his  brothers  have  left  him?" 

Dick  pursed  his  lips. 

"I've  been  out  of  the  country  for  some  time,"  he 
explained. 

The  old  man  gave  the  arm  rest  a  vicious  tap. 

"Left  him — and  a  good  thing  for  him,  I  should  say. 
Couple  of  empty-headed  asses!  But  they'll  come  back 
— you  mark  my  words." 

Dick  would  have  questioned  him,  but  the  old  iron- 
master changed  the  subject  with  characteristic  abrupt- 
ness. Margaret  had  told  her  father  a  great  deal  about 
Morrow,  about  his  travels  and  adventures ;  he  wanted 
to  hear  more,  for — 

"It  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  a  year  or  so  back  to 
keep  my  daughter  from  going  out  as  a  missionary." 

"She  is  very  earnest  in  her  work,"  said  Dick  ad- 
miringly ;  "she  would  be  a  splendid  acquisition  to  the 
ranks  of  the  brave  women  scattered  throughout  the 
East." 


250  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"She's  all  I  have,  Mr.  Morrow,"  said  the  old  man, 
dropping  his  voice,  "and  I  suppose  it's  natural,  in  the 
circumstances,  for  me  to  be  a  little  selfish.  I  don't 
know  what  I  should  have  done  without  her  all  these 
years." 

Dick  nodded  understandingly,  and  glanced  through 
the  window  to  where  Margaret  and  the  child  were 
wandering  hand  in  hand  in  the  shrubbery. 

"Don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  without  her," 
Mr.  Drender  repeated,  half  to  himself,  as  he  followed 
Dick's  eyes.  .  .  .  "Mebbe  I'm  selfish." 

Tea  was  laid  in  the  study,  and  Mori  crept  right  into 
John  Drender's  heart  by  carrying  his  cup  to  him  in 
the  mincing,  shuffling  manner  of  a  musume.  She  was 
a  delightful  mimic,  and  the  louder  the  old  ironmaster 
laughed  the  more  emphatic  and  expressive  were  her 
gestures.  And,  tea  over,  he  insisted  on  her  sitting  at 
his  feet  and  going  through  the  pantomime  again. 

Margaret  and  Dick  went  into  the  grounds,  where 
they  talked  of  the  work  in  which  they,  both  of  them, 
were  interested.  Again  and  again  the  name  of  Robert 
MacWhinnie  passed  his  lips,  until,  at  last,  she  looked 
up  at  him,  and  said  almost  in  a  criticizing  voice :  "You 
are  a  very  close  friend  of  Mr.  MacWhinnie?" 

Dick  started  slightly,  and  replied: 

"Of  course.  ...  I  am  always  mentioning  his 
name  ?" 

"Say  'frequently/  "  and  she  smiled  as  to  add :  "I 
wonder  why?" 

Dick  lowered  his  eyes.  "Robert  MacWhinnie  is  very 
close  to  my  heart,  Miss  Drender.  I  am  one  of  those 


AT  "JAP  ROW  SIDE"  251 

men  who  make  few  friends  in  life,  being  so  nomadic, 
so — so  erratic." 

She  looked  at  him,  almost  shyly. 

"Hardly  erratic,  Mr.  Morrow.  I  should  have  said 
that  you  were  a  man  who  would  never  be  without  a 
friend." 

"Perhaps  I'm  too  exacting.  A  man  must  possess 
so  many  qualities  to  satisfy  my  demands;  he  must 
make  up  for  my  own  shortcomings." 

"And  Mr.  MacWhinnie  possesses  all  those  quali- 
ties?" She  was  half  amused,  half  grave. 

"He  possesses  them  all  save  one,"  said  Dick,  with  a 
great  deal  of  earnestness,  and  as  though  she  were  chal- 
lenging him  to  defend  the  honor  of  his  old  friend ;  "all 
save  one.  .  .  .  He's  too  unselfish,  he  takes  too  serious 
a  view  of  life,  and  of  what  is  meant  by  the  word 
'duty.'  " 

She  sighed,  and  her  cheeks  reddened  because  of  that 
sigh;  there  was  still  a  smile  in  her  eyes  as  she  said: 

"How  splendidly  you  champion  a  friend !" 

"How  splendid  a  friend  to  champion !"  he  answered 
quietly.  "I  met  Robert  MacWhinnie  during  his  first 
month  in  Japan,  and  I  was  still  there  when  he  came 
out  with  his  sister." 

The  big  dark  eyes  filled  as  she  murmured : 

"Poor  Jean!" 

"You  knew  her  well,  Miss  Drender?" 

"Yes" — very  softly. 

"She  died  in  my  arms"— his  voice  trembled. 

Margaret  placed  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"I  didn't  know  that,"  she  said,  pausing  in  the  path 
to  look  into  his  face. 


THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 


"And  sometimes  I  feel  that  my  heart  died  with  her, 
and  .  .  .  You're  the  first  woman  to  whom  I  have 
spoken  about  her."  His  eyes  were  bright,  and  the 
lines  of  his  rugged  face  seemed  to  soften. 

"Poor  Jean  !"  she  whispered  again  ;  adding,  almost 
inaudibly,  "and  poor  you!" 

He  shook  himself,  and  infused  a  more  determined 
note  into  his  voice. 

"Poor  me?"  he  laughed  softly.  "No,  no;  I  am  rich 
—  in  memories  —  and  they  count  for  a  lot  in  a  life  like 
mine.  .  .  .  Do  you  understand,  now,  why  Robert  and 
I  dwell  so  closely  together  in  friendship?" 

"He  loved  his  sister,"  Margaret  said,  and  lowered 
her  eyes. 

"There's  something  else.  It's  because  I  feel  that 
behind  his  quiet  resignation  there  is  a  tragedy  similar 
to  my  own,  that  I  look  upon  him  —  well,  as  a  brother." 

She  turned  her  head  to  listen  to  the  burst  of  laugh- 
ter coming  from  the  direction  of  the  study. 

"Mori  in  her  most  piquant  mood,"  Dick  guessed. 
"If  I  could  think  ill  of  Robert  for  just  one  hour,  I 
should  run  away  with  Mori." 

Margaret  was  all  smiles  as  she  inclined  her  ear  to- 
ward the  house. 

"It's  a  long  while  since  I  heard  father  laugh  like 
that,"  she  told  him. 

"Mori  has  driven  the  tears  out  of  my  heart  many  a 
time." 

"Let  us  go  in,"  she  urged  ;  "we  cannot  afford  to  lose 
bright  moments." 

Dick  followed  her  to  the  door;  they  had  to  pass  the 
study  window,  and  it  was  natural  to  glance  in.  John 


AT  "JARROWSIDE" 253 

Drender  was  lying  back  in  his  chair  and  laughing  while 
the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks.  Mori,  in  the  center 
of  the  room,  was  playing  a  mythical  samisen,  and 
screeching  after  the  manner  of  a  geisha  in  song. 

Long  after  Dick  and  the  child  were  gone  from 
"Jarrowside,"  old  Drender  sat  in  the  study  nodding  to 
his  laughing  thoughts.  Margaret  came  in  to  read  to 
him.  He  looked  up,  placed  his  hand  to  his  ear,  and 
asked : 

"Whose  bairn  is  yon,  Margaret?" 

"Robert  MacWhinnie's,  father,"  she  said,  and  her 
lips  quivered. 

A  shadow  came  to  his  face,  but  only  for  a  fleeting 
second.  Then  he  held  out  his  hand  toward  her. 

"We'll  have  the  reading,  my  bonnie  lass,"  he  said. 
And  as  she  came  closer,  he  reached  up  and  gently 
stroked  her  hair.  He  said  no  word,  but  there  was  that 
in  his  tender  touch  that  murmured : 

"And  you're  mine — you're  mine." 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE   WEAKER   SEX 

MORI  fell  ill,  at  a  time  when  the  governess  was 
away  on  a  visit  to  her  parents  and  the  old 
housekeeper  was  confined  to  her  room  with  a 
pain  which  she  could  not  locate.  Robert  returned 
from  the  works  to  find  the  child  huddled  up  on  the 
couch  in  the  study ;  she  was  hot  and  feverish,  and  there 
was  considerable  sickness;  the  eyes  were  puffed,  the 
cheeks  flushed,  and  as  he  fell  on  his  knees  beside  the 
couch  she  allowed  her  head  to  loll  toward  him.  His 
cry  of  "Mori,  darling,  what  ails  you?"  frightened 
rather  than  soothed  her;  for  the  fear  in  his  eyes  was 
strange  to  her.  He  looked  about  him,  and  never  had 
his  sense  of  loneliness  been  so  acute.  Lonely  and 
helpless!  He  rang  for  the  servants,  ran  to  the  door 
and  called  anxiously,  angrily.  They  came  at  his  bid- 
ding, and  were  as  helpless  as  he.  How  long  had  Miss 
Mori  been  ill  ?  They  didn't  know.  How  long  had  she 
been  on  the  couch  ?  They  couldn't  tell  him ;  they  had 
not  missed  her — she  seldom  went  into  the  servants' 
quarters. 

"The  doctor — quickly !"  he  said  sharply.    "See  that 
her  room  is  ready;  I'll  take  her  upstairs  immediately." 

Is  there  anything  so  pathetic  as  a  lonely  man  with  a 
sick  child  in  his  arms  ?    All  that  day  Robert  had  toiled 


THE  WEAKER  SEX 255 

as  hard  as  any  laborer  in  his  works,  and  toward  the 
end  only  the  thought  of  the  waiting  child  had  pre- 
vented his  sinking  down  on  an  office  chair  and  sleep- 
ing. Fear  easily  masters  the  bodily  weak  man.  As  he 
carried  the  child  to  her  room,  a  thousand  phantoms 
seemed  to  crowd  around  him,  their  hands  outstretched 
to  snatch  her  from  his  grasp.  The  maid  who  followed 
him  into  the  room  shrank  from  him  as  he  turned  upon 
her  to  ask  why  she  was  standing  there  like  a  block  of 
wood. 

"Undress  the  child — and  do  it  gently."  And  he 
rushed  down  the  stairs  to  make  certain  that  someone 
had  gone  for  the  doctor.  Then  back  again  to  the  sick 
room.  Mori  was  moaning  and  wetting  her  dry  lips 
with  her  tongue.  Roughly  he  thrust  the  frightened 
maid  aside,  and  with  a  moistened  sponge  brushed  the 
curls  from  the  child's  forehead,  the  while  he  called  to 
her,  gently,  pleadingly. 

He  heard  the  hall  door  open,  and  with  a  cry  of  relief 
ran  to  the  landing  and  called  out  urgently : 

"Hurry,  doctor;  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  hurry!" 

It  was  Dick  Morrow,  and  he  came  up  the  stairs 
three  at  a  time.  Robert  turned  on  him  fiercely. 

"I  thought  you  were  the  doctor,  Dick.  Get  away, 
man,  and  fetch  one — make  him  come — carry  him — 
don't  waste  a  second.  Mori's  ill." 

A  maid  called  up  the  stairs.  The  doctor  was  on  his 
way  to  the  house. 

"Mori  ill!"  Dick  pushed  him  aside  and  went  into 
the  room  to  the  child.  His  fear  was  as  great  as  Rob- 
ert's. He  leaned  over  the  bed,  and  his  fingers  shook 
like  reeds  in  the  wind  as  he  touched  her  hair. 


256  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Do  something,  Dick,"  Robert  whispered.  "Don't 
let  her  lie  there  in  pain." 

"What  can  I  do,  old  fellow?"  Dick  threw  out  his 
hands  in  a  gesture  of  helplessness.  "Who's  been  with 
her  all  day?  What  has  she  been  eating?  Don't  you 
know?  Haven't  you  inquired  of  the  servants?" 

Robert  took  a  deep  breath. 

"My  dear  Dick,"  he  burst  out,  "why  stand  there  ask- 
ing questions  ?  I've  only  just  returned  from  the  works. 
I  found  her  lying  on  the  couch,  all  crumpled  up,  Dick, 
like  a  crushed  flower,  and  no  one  near  her — no  one 
taking  the  least  interest  in  her.  Can't  you  do  any- 
thing? I  thought  you  knew  something  about  ail- 
ments." 

Dick  clenched  his  hands. 

"My  dear  Robert,  don't  be  a  fool !  What  can  I  do  ? 
I'm — I'm  as  big  a  fool  as  you  are  where  children  are 
concerned.  .  .  .  My  little  sweetheart !"  He  was  bend- 
ing over  the  bed  again,  but  all  that  he  could  do  to  re- 
lieve her  was  to  brush  back  the  damp  curls  from  a 
damper  brow. 

They,  both  of  them,  were  helpless.  They  were  near 
to  anger  with  each  other,  and  when  they  heard  the 
rattling  of  the  wheels  on  the  drive  they  cried,  together, 
"Thank  God !"  and  hurried  down  the  stairs.  The  doc- 
tor went  back  with  them,  looking  from  one  to  the 
other  as  though  he  were  in  doubt  which  to  address. 
They  leaned  over  his  shoulder  as  he  stooped  to  touch 
the  sick  child,  and  they  waited  with  lips  parted  for 
the  result  of  his  examination. 

"Is  there  a  woman  in  the  house?"  he  inquired,  at 
last.  "If  not,  telephone  for  a  nurse." 


THE  WEAKER  SEX 25? 

Robert  caught  at  his  arm.  The  doctor  shook  his 
head  warningly. 

"You  had  better  go  downstairs,"  he  said.  "I  will 
come  to  you  presently,  when  the  nurse  arrives." 

In  the  study  Robert  found  Dick,  who  had  preceded 
him  from  the  sick  room.  He  closed  the  door  and  went 
over  to  the  couch. 

"She  was  lying  there — just  there,  when  I  came  in," 
he  said,  biting  at  his  lips  to  keep  back  the  sobs. 

Dick's  wretchedness  of  mind  was  to  be  seen  in  his 
eyes.  He  nodded  mechanically. 

Robert  sat  down  on  the  couch  and  stared  at  the  car- 
pet. With  a  little  laugh  of  bitterness  he  muttered : 

"Presentiments,  presentiments — all  day  long  pre- 
sentiments. Dick,  this  would  be  the  last  blow  that  I 
could  stand." 

"Steady  yourself,  Robert,"  said  Dick  feebly;  "it 
may  be  nothing  serious." 

"I  think  I  could  stand  anything  save  that.  I  mean 
it,  Dick.  I'm  sorry  if  I  spoke  roughly  to  you  upstairs. 
You  can  understand  my  feelings  ?" 

"Quite,"  said  Dick,  without  appearing  to  have 
heard. 

"It  hurt  me,  stabbed  me,  to  think  that  we  two  could 
do  nothing  to  help  her  while  she  was  lying  there.  You 
heard  her  moan,  Dick?  That  was  the  first  time  I 
heard  a  child  moan,  and  I  never  want  to  hear  it 
again." 

"It  may  be  nothing." 

"And  the  strange  part  about  it  is  that  all  these  years 
I've  never  even  thought  of  the  contingency ;  she's  al- 
ways been  so  strong,  so  vigorous,  so  full  of  life " 


258  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"May  be  nothing  at  all." 

"So  full  of  energy  that  I've  never  associated  her 
with  illness.  .  .  .  Dick — Dick,  it'll  break  my  faith. 
.  .  .  What  do  you  mean  by  'nothing  at  all'  ?  How  can 
you  stand  there,  man,  and  talk  such  arrant  nonsense, 

and Forgive  me,  Dick.  My  head's  all  anyhow." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands ;  the  muscles  of  his 
arms  were  taut.  "We've  had  a  tiring  day  in  the 
works,  old  fellow.  Everything  seemed  to  go  wrong — • 
just  as  though  the  inanimate  things  knew  that  some- 
thing was  going  to  happen.  You  heard  what  the  doc- 
tor said?  'Isn't  there  a  woman  in  the  house?'  Oh, 
Dick,  if  anything  should  happen  to  my  Mori,  there'd 
be  nothing  left.  .  .  .  Everything  seemed  to  go  wrong ; 

the  machinery  knew,  and Ring  the  bell  gently, 

old  boy,  and  inquire  if  that  nurse  has  arrived.  Where 
the  devil  has  she  got  to  ?" 

"Robert,  have  patience." 

"I  am  patient.  .  .  .  Can  you  hear  anything  up- 
stairs? Dick,  I'm  all  of  a  tremble.  .  .  .  'Isn't  there  a 
woman  in  the  house?'  Say,  Dick,  it's  terrible  when 
there  isn't  a  woman  in  the — in  a  case  like  this.  Eh  ?" 

"Terrible,"  Dick  agreed. 

"Everything  seems  to  go  dead  wrong,  doesn't  it?" 

"Everything." 

"I  wish  you  knew  how  I  felt  when  we  couldn't  do 
anything  up  there." 

"I  knew." 

Robert  started  to  his  feet.  There  was  a  step  on  the 
stair.  The  doctor  pushed  open  the  study  door.  Both 
Robert  and  Dick  held  out  their  hands  imploringly. 

"The  nurse  is  with  her,"  said  the  doctor  cheerily. 


THE  WEAKER  SEX 259 

He  looked  at  Robert.  "You  are  Mr.  MacWhinnie,  I 
believe?  Keep  the  child  warm;  but  the  nurse  will  see 
to  that,  in  any  case;  leave  everything  to  her — she 
knows  her  work." 

He  buttoned  his  coat  collar  and  held  out  his  hand  to 
Robert. 

"Measles,"  he  said  abruptly. 


CHAPTER    X 

THE   STRENGTH    OF   PRIDE 

THE  child  had  reached  that  stage  of  convales- 
cence when  fret  fulness  takes  the  place  of  mute 
appeal.  She  was  restless  and  impatient,  and  he 
must  always  be  near  the  bedside  when  she  awoke,  and 
be  ready  to  amuse  her  with  new  stories,  and  to  tell  her 
of  all  that  was  going  on  in  the  house  and  at  the  works. 
No  parent  was  ever  more  solicitous  than  Robert  Mac- 
Whinnie.  His  patience  was  inexhaustible,  and  even 
when  her  eyes  remained  open  till  long  after  midnight, 
he  never  seemed  to  tire,  no  matter  how  arduous  had 
been  the  exertions  of  the  day. 

And  then  came  the  menace  which  he  had  never  even 
considered  possible.  The  portent  to  which  the  social- 
istic Thomas  had  endeavored  to  direct  his  attention 
arose  at  a  time  when  he  was  actually  feeling  the  ex- 
hilaration of  a  triumph  that  seemed  assured.  The 
Chilian  contract  was  nearly  completed,  and  in  the 
stories  to  the  child  he  had  outlined  a  holiday  which  he 
intended  to  take  with  her.  For  some  days  he  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  leaving  the  works  half  an  hour  before 
work  ceased,  in  order  that  he  might  sit  with  Mori  as 
long  as  possible  before  dinner.  Those  who  were  di- 
rectly responsible  for  the  rude  awakening  of  Robert 
MacWhinnie  could  not  have  timed  their  actions  more 

260 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  PRIDE  261 

cruelly.  Before  leaving  the  office  that  afternoon,  Rob- 
ert had  sent  for  his  manager,  MacGowan,  and  inti- 
mated that  while  he  was  satisfied  they  could  finish  well 
within  the  contract  time,  he  wished  to  be  on  the  safe 
side,  and  gave  instructions  for  a  number  of  the  men  to 
work  overtime. 

"They  will  be  well  paid  for  it,"  he  had  said;  "but 
not  for  a  moment  do  I  believe  that  the  promise  will 
weigh  with  them.  I  am  content  to  rely  on  their  loy- 
alty. Indeed,  I  feel  that  the  majority  of  them  are  as 
anxious  as  I  am  for  the  good  reputation  of  the  firm." 

Mori  had  been  more  than  usually  fretful  that  day, 
and  when  Robert  reached  home  he  found  her  crying; 
as  tears  had  never  been  associated  with  a  disposition 
that  was  very  like  his  own,  he  was  thrown  into  great 
alarm.  Her  imagination  had  been  running  riot,  and 
the  nurse  had  become  impatient,  and  rebuked  her.  She 
didn't  want  to  listen  to  Mori's  stories  of  fairy  archi- 
pelagoes and  lands  where  the  sun  went  to  bed  so 
quickly  that  one  never  saw  it  undress;  she  wanted 
Mori  to  try  to  sleep,  and  she  was  very  angry  with  the 
father  who  filled  the  child's  head  with  such  nonsense. 

But  within  five  minutes  the  child  was  happy.  He 
had  lifted  her  out  of  bed,  wrapped  a  blanket  around 
her  shoulders,  and  was  sitting  with  her  near  the  win- 
dow from  which  they  could  see  the  river  craft.  He 
believed  in  all  her  fairy  people ;  he  was  certain  that  at 
one  time  or  another  he  must  have  been  there  among 
them;  and,  best  of  all,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that 
when  she  was  strong  again  they  would  set  out  to  find 
these  places.  She  went  to  sleep  in  his  arms,  and  he 
placed  her  back  in  the  bed,  lying  down  by  her  side  for 


262  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

some  time,  lest  she  should  awaken  suddenly  and  be 
afraid  because  he  wasn't  there. 

When  at  last  he  left  the  room  he  was  so  tired  that 
he  could  scarcely  keep  his  eyes  open.  He  did  not  wish 
for  dinner.  He  felt  that  he  hadn't  the  strength  to 
change.  He  went  to  the  study,  and  touched  the  bell 
before  flinging  himself  down  on  the  couch.  He  told 
the  maid  that  he  would  do  without  dinner,  or,  at  least, 
rest  for  an  hour  before  having  it.  And  he  had  hardly 
closed  his  eyes  when  the  girl  returned.  MacGowan, 
the  manager  of  the  works,  wished  to  see  Mr.  Mac- 
Whinnie  at  once. 

"Show  him  in,"  said  Robert,  without  rising. 

He  overheard  MacGowan  saying  to  someone  in  the 
hall:  "No,  I  must  see  him  first.  Dinna  mind  me, 
lassie."  Then  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  the 
angular  Scot  stumbled  in.  He  was  still  in  his  over- 
alls, and  there  was  blood  on  his  face. 

"Man,  it's  come !"  he  burst  out. 

Robert  sprang  from  the  couch  with  a  wild  exclama- 
tion, and  thrust  MacGowan  into  a  chair. 

"What's  come?  What's  this  blood  on  your  face? 
What  has  happened?" 

"Everything's  happened,"  said  MacGowan  dole- 
fully. "I've  been  fearin'  it  this  mony  a  day,  but  I  lis- 
tened to  ye,  sir.  Ye  were  always  so  ready  to  gi'e  them 
credit  for  loyalty." 

"You're  talking  about  the  men?"  Robert's  face 
had  gone  suddenly  pale.  "What  has  happened,  Mac- 
Gowan ?" 

"It  was  the  overtime  notice  that  seemed  to  do  it." 

"Do  what,  man?    Why  don't  you  speak  out?" 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  PRIDE  263 

"They've  gone  on  strike,  sir."  And  MacGowan 
gave  two  nods  as  in  emphasis. 

Robert  was  too  dazed  for  a  moment  to  do  more 
than  stare  at  the  man  in  the  chair.  Then  he  cried  out 
in  a  peculiar,  unnatural  voice : 

"You're  mad,  MacGowan!  You  must  be  mad!" 
And,  as  MacGowan  didn't  speak :  "I  don't  believe  you, 
MacGowan.  You're  doing  this  to  annoy  me.  You've 
been  talking  to  somebody,  and  you  have  some  griev- 
ance." 

MacGowan  wiped  his  brow  with  the  back  of  his  oily 
hand. 

"That's  no  like  ye,  Mr.  MacWhinnie,"  he  said  re- 
proachfully. "I've  sarved  ye  weel." 

"But  do  you  know  what  you're  saying?"  Robert's 
face  was  pitiable,  and  his  fingers  were  working  as 
though  he  would  take  MacGowan  by  the  shoulders 
and  shake  a  coherent  story  from  him. 

"I'm  telling  ye  the  truth,  Mr.  MacWhinnie.  It  hap- 
pened soon  after  you  left  this  afternoon,  but  they've 
been  brooding  a  long  while.  Didna  I  say  to  ye  that 
brother  of  yours — > — " 

"Hold  your  tongue,  MacGowan!"  said  Robert 
sharply;  but  in  that  minute  he  felt  the  pain  of  a  knife- 
stab.  Was  it  possible  that  his  own  brother  had  done 
this  thing?  He  had  never  regarded  Thomas's  leanings 
as  other  than  harmless.  He  had  never  for  a  moment 
imagined  that  he  would  allow  those  leanings  to  preju- 
dice his  own  flesh  and  blood.  The  whole  idea  was  pre- 
posterous. 

"Half  an  hour  after  ye'd  gone,"  MacGowan  went 
on,  "a  dozen  o'  them  cam'  into  the  office  to  see  ye. 


261  THE  HOXOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

They'd  torn  down  the  notice  about  overtime,  and  they 
flung  it  in  my  face  when  I  opened  the  door.  They 
were  not  going  to  be  dictated  to,  they  said.  Ye'd  ca- 
joled them  into  working  like  slaves  for  the  last  month 
or  two,  and  they  were  not  certain  that  you  meant  to  do 
what  was  right  by  them.  They  were  in  a  position  to 
dictate.  That's  how  they  talked,  sir." 

"Dictate !    But  what  do  they  wish  to  dictate  ?" 

"They  had  set  out  their  demands.  They  thrust  it 
into  my  hand — that  paper ! — and  asked  for  ye.  They 
wouldna  believe  that  ye'd  gone.  Two  o'  them  tried  to 
get  past  me  into  the  office — two  o'  the  young  uns,  who 
were  out  for  devilment.  They  wanted  nae  mair  than 
a  spark  to  set  them  on  fire,  and — and,  man,  they  got 
it!  I've  worked  too  lang  as  an  engineer;  I've  helped 
too  many  bairns  to  climb  into  manhood  and  to  larn 
their  trade,  to  stand  that  sort  o'  thing.  'Ye're  lyin'  to 
us,  MacGowan,'  one  said;  an'  I  felled  him  as  he 
spoke." 

"MacGowan,  you  shouldn't  have  done  that." 

"You'd  hae  done  the  same  y'rself,  sir.  They  had 
nae  respect  for  my  gray  hair,  but  they  had  some  for 
my  fist.  Look  at  their  terms." 

"Of  course,  they're  impossible." 

"They  demand  a  percentage  on  accountants'  fig- 
ures." 

Robert  was  reading  what  the  leaders  of  the  men  had 
written. 

"They  can't  be  serious,"  he  said. 

"They're  serious  eno',"  said  MacGowan,  "because 
they  know  we've  on'y  four  days  left." 

"Four  days  in  wrhich  to  complete  the  contract.   Yes, 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  PRIDE  265 

MacGowan,  and  they  know  something  else.  They 
know  that  I'm  a  small  man,  and  that  this  is  the  hardest 
fight  that  we've  had  to  put  up  thus  far.  How  can  we 
temporize  with  them?" 

"Ye'll  no  do  that,  sir.  They're  too  cunning. 
They're  aware  that  the  advantages  are  a'  on  their  side. 
I  could  see  it  in  their  faces ;  they  had  been  waiting  for 
this  moment." 

"But,  MacGowan,  they  were  so  peaceful.  Every- 
thing was  in^such  perfect  order  when  I  left  this  after- 
noon. This  is  like  a  nightmare." 

"They  deceived  ye,  but  they  didna  quite  deceive 
me,"  said  MacGowan.  "They  went  about  it  quietly, 
and  if  I  hadna  been  a  suspicious  man,  they'd  hae  taken 
me  in  badly." 

"What  are  they  doing  now?" 

"They're  outside  the  gates.  Work's  stopped.  They 
guess  that  I've  come  to  see  ye.  I  wish  ye'd  taken  my 
advice,  sir,  when  I  hinted  that  the  room  of  certain 
persons  who  cam'  to  the  yard  was  mair  desirable  than 
their  company." 

"Hold  your  tongue,"  said  Robert  again,  "if  it's  Mr, 
Thomas  MacWhinnie  to  whom  you're  referring." 

"I'll  grant  ye,  sir,  that  he  hasna  been  near  the  works 
since  the  day  the  young  maisters  left;  but  he  dropped 
the  seed  behind  him,  and  it  grows  awf'y  quick.  An* 
if  it's  no  him,  I  can  put  my  hand  on  the  other  body. 
Do  you  ken,  sir,  that  Drender  and  Masters  hae  no 
been  havin'  a  vera  flush  time  lately  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"They  havena  had  mony  contracts  in.  Work's  been 
a  little  slack." 


266 


"I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"An'  I  shouldna  wonder  if  they've  never  got  over 
the  slight  that  was  put  on  them  when  we  got  this  con- 
tract." 

Robert  thrust  aside  his  own  interests,  fears,  and 
anxieties  in  that  minute. 

"MacGowan,"  he  said  sternly,  "when  you  speak  of 
Drender  and  Masters,  you  will  please  me  and  do  credit 
to  yourself  as  an  engineer — you  will  pay  a  tribute  to 
your  judgment — by  remembering  that  if  our  firm  has 
one  consuming  ambition,  it  is  to  achieve  the  reputation 
of  Drender  and  Masters.  Now  we'll  go  down  to  the 
works.  There's  no  time  to  be  lost.  These  men  must 
be  brought  to  realize  that,  although  the  advantages  of 
the  moment  are  on  their  side,  we're  not  going  to  throw 
down  our  weapons  and  surrender  tamely." 

He  left  the  manager  in  the  study  for  a  moment,  and 
went  out  to  give  instructions  to  the  nurse  that  Mori 
was  to  be  kept  quiet  and  in  ignorance  of  the  fact  that 
he  was  out. 

When  he  and  MacGowan  arrived  at  the  works,  they 
found  a  hundred  or  so  of  the  men  gathered  about  the 
gates.  The  youths  raised  an  ironical  cheer  as  Robert 
leaped  from  the  cab,  followed  by  MacGowan.  The 
older  men  kept  in  the  background,  seemingly  content 
to  leave  the  excitement  of  the  hour  to  the  others.  The 
gates  of  the  works  were  wide  open.  Robert  forced  his 
way  through  the  press  till  he  reached  the  entrance; 
then  he  turned  and  faced  the  malcontents.  MacGowan 
was  on  his  right  hand,  his  angular  features  set  in  defi- 
ance. Someone  on  the  fringe  of  the  crowd  shouted: 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  PRIDE  267 

"What's  your  answer,  Robert  MacWhinnie?  We're 
waiting  for  it,  and  we  want  'Yes'  or  'No.'  " 

MacGowan  raised  a  grimy  fist,  and  shook  it  men- 
acingly in  the  direction  of  the  voice,  but  Robert  turned 
upon  him  angrily. 

"We'll  pay  you  for  that,  MacGowan !"  shouted  some 
of  the  youths. 

One  of  the  older  men  called  out,  in  a  semi-apolo- 
getic tone :  "It's  the  principle  we're  fighting,  not  Rob- 
ert MacWhinnie."  A  cheer  followed,  and  when  it 
had  died  down  Robert  raised  his  hand  for  silence. 

"If  you  had  any  principles,"  he  said,  and  he  was  un- 
able to  conceal  his  bitterness,  "you  have  forfeited 
them ;  for  when  did  I  refuse  to  listen  to  any  grievances 
you  might  have  had  to  lay  before  me?  Have  I  ever 
treated  you  as  other  than  men  ?" 

"The  principle!"  they  shouted  again,  but  there  was 
a  tinge  of  shame  in  their  voices. 

"Only  a  short  while  ago  I  made  what  I  believed  to 
be  a  generous  offer." 

"It  was  the  time  to  make  offers,  Mr.  MacWhinnie," 
a  thick-set  engineer  shouted  back.  "You  had  every- 
thing to  gain,  and  we  were  not  in  a  position 

"To  thank  me  for  it,"  Robert  helped  him  out. 

"You  were  getting  value  for  your  money." 

"And  this,"  said  Robert,  pointing  back  at  the  empty 
yard,  "this  is  the  value.  Where  are  your  leaders  ?" 

A  dozen  names  were  shouted  in  chorus,  but  no  one 
moved  forward. 

"You  have  our  terms,"  said  someone  in  the  crowd ; 
"this  matter  can  be  easily  adjusted  if  you  like  to  exer- 
cise the  spirit  of  fair  play." 


268  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"The  terms  set  out  on  this  paper,"  said  Robert,  "are 
preposterous,"  and  with  that  he  tore  the  paper  in 
halves  and  flung  the  pieces  in  the  direction  of  the 
crowd.  "There's  my  answer,"  he  said,  and  then  waved 
his  hand  toward  the  works.  "The  gates  are  open. 
Finish  your  work,  and  then  I  may  be  disposed  to  dis- 
cuss any  proposals  you  have  to  make." 

They  laughed  in  his  face. 

"We're  not  fools,  Robert  MacWhinnie,"  an  old  man 
cried.  "If  we  give  way  now,  what  chance  have  we  of 
getting  redress  when  the  contract's  finished." 

"Point  to  a  single  instance  of  redress  having  been 
denied  you." 

"You'll  have  to  give  way,"  said  the  man,  making 
no  attempt  to  reply  to  the  question.  "You  have  only 
four  days  left." 

"You  chose  your  time  well,"  said  Robert.  "It  does 
great  credit  to  your  sense  of  loyalty.  I'll  show  you 
how  I  appreciate  it.  MacGowan,  stand  by  that  gate." 
He  turned  back  to  the  men.  "The  gates  are  open 
now,"  he  said,  "and  my  offer  stands.  Go  back  to  your 
shops,  and  when  the  work  is  through  I'll  receive  any 
deputation  you  care  to  send  to  me,  and  endeavor  to 
meet  all  your  demands.  Refuse  to  go  in,  and  I  close 
the  gates.  The  majority  of  you  are  union  men,  but  I 
doubt  if  you  have  the  support  of  your  union  in  this 
matter,  for  no  union  worthy  the  name  condones  what 
is  little  removed  from  sheer  treachery.  After  those 
gates  are  closed,  I  shall  refuse  to  listen  to  anyone  here. 
I  shall  discuss  the  trouble  only  with  representatives 
from  headquarters.  Now,  what  is  your  answer?" 

Again  he  was  rewarded  with  a  taunting  laugh. 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  PRIDE  269 

"Close  the  gates,  MacGowan."  He  stepped  back, 
and  the  gates  swung  together.  It  was  strength  of 
character,  yet  even  MacGowan,  rude  and  unpolished, 
shook  his  head  in  disapproval. 

"Man,  they'll  wreck  the  works!"  he  said,  as  he 
watched  Robert  shoot  home  the  bolts  that  held  the 
gate. 

"Go  into  the  office  quickly,"  said  Robert,  "and  tele- 
phone to  the  police." 

"I  did  that  before  I  cam'  to  see  ye,  sir,"  said  Mac- 
Gowan. "They  will  be  here  shortly." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Robert  calmly.  "The  men 
may  do  whatever  their  treachery  dictates,  but  at  the 
first  sign  of  attack  on  those  gates,  MacGowan,  they 
will  learn  what  it  is  to  defy  a  desperate  man." 

They  were  hurrying  toward  the  office.  From  be- 
yond the  gates  came  shouts  and  howls  of  derision. 

"Loyalty !"  muttered  Robert.  "That's  loyalty,  Mac- 
Gowan, when  you're  compelled  to  buy  it.  If  I  were 
in  a  position  to  do  it,  I'd  keep  those  gates  locked  until 
they  were  brought  to  their  knees  by  hunger.  It's  this 
kind  of  thing  that  adds  bricks  to  the  wall  between 
capital  and  labor,  in  spite  of  all  the  attempts  to  break 
down  that  wall.  Four  days,  working  at  top  speed!" 

He  went  into  the  office,  and  MacGowan  could  see 
that  the  great  heart  was  wavering.  Robert  sat  down 
at  the  table,  resting  his  elbows  upon  it  and  staring 
vacantly  in  front  of  him.  The  gate  was  fifty  yards 
from  the  office.  The  men  outside  had  taken  to  sing- 
ing, but  Robert  did  not  hear  them. 

"After  the  singing,  the  stones,"  MacGowan  mut- 
tered. "I  know  them.  I've  been  through  this  before." 


270  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Robert  turned  to  him. 

"I  don't  want  to  keep  you  here,  MacGowan,"  he 
said,  "if  you'd  feel  safer  at  home.  It  would  be  quite 
easy  for  you  to  leave  the  works  by  way  of  the  river." 

"Ay,"  said  MacGowan,  and  there  was  a  frown  on 
his  rugged  face. 

"Quite  easy,"  said  Robert.  "I'll  go  down  with  you, 
if  you  wish." 

"Ay,"  said  MacGowan  again.  "Mebbe  you'd  like 
me  to  go  out  there  an'  tell  them  that  Sandy  Mac- 
Gowan was  just  as  big  a  reprobate  as  theirsel's.  It 
would  be  much  easier  for  me  to  go  amang  them  wi'  a 
crowbar." 

"You're  a  Scot,  MacGowan,"  said  Robert,  smiling 
gratefully,  "and  there's  a  lot  in  that.  .  .  .  You  think 
I  was  right  in  my  assumption  that  their  union  knows 
nothing  of  this  ?" 

"I'm  certain  of  it,  sir.  I  tell  you  that  I  could  put 
my  finger  on  the  right  spot." 

Robert  shook  his  head. 

"They  know  their  strength.  Four  days !  But  even 
if  I  dared  concede  their  terms,  they  would  take  it  in 
the  wrong  spirit.  They  would  laugh  at  me — laugh  at 
my  helplessness.  MacGowan,  there  seems  to  be  no 
other  way  out  of  it." 

A  volley  of  stones  rattled  against  the  gates. 

"On'y  the  youngsters,"  said  MacGowan  soothingly. 
"They'll  soon  get  tired  of  that,  and  they're  mighty 
good  gates.  I'll  mak'  some  of  the  beggars  put  the 
paint  back  when  they've  come  to  their  senses." 

"We  can't  afford  to  lose  an  hour."  Robert  was 
biting  his  lips  in  desperation. 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  PRIDE  271 

The  clamour  outside  died  suddenly  away. 

MacGowan  went  quickly  to  the  door  of  the  office. 
The  bell  hanging  from  the  gatepost  was  rung  loudly. 

"They're  coming  to  their  senses  sooner  than  I 
thought,"  and  MacGowan  rolled  up  his  sleeves. 
"They've  sung  their  song.  I'll  be  singin'  mine  in  a 
few  minutes." 

"Will  you  go  and  see  what  they  want?"  said  Rob- 
ert. "I  shall  receive  only  their  acknowledged  leaders, 
and  you  may  as  well  inform  them  that  there  will  be 
no  compromise.  The  terms  which  they  set  out  are 
still  preposterous." 

He  heard  MacGowan  running  swiftly  across  the 
yard.  He  heard  the  withdrawing  of  the  bolts.  He 
heard  the  gates  clang  together  again.  Then  came  the 
sound  of  footsteps  returning  to  the  office.  He  was 
still  seated  at  the  table,  his  back  to  the  door;  he  was 
trying  to  plan  some  answer  that  would  neither  com- 
promise him  nor  prejudice  the  situation.  The  door 
behind  him  opened.  "Sir,"  said  MacGowan  mean- 
ingly. Robert  looked  around.  Thomas,  the  elder 
brother,  was  standing  on  the  threshold;  there  was  a 
faint  sneer  on  his  thin  lips  and  an  expression  of  "I 
told  you  so — I  warned  you"  in  his  eyes. 

"Close  that  door,  MacGowan,"  said  Robert  coldly, 
"and  if  I  should  need  you  I  will  call  out." 

MacGowan's  seared  face  wrinkled  in  an  exulting 
smile,  and  as  he  backed  away  he  made  a  feint  with  his 
clenched  fist  at  an  imaginary  opponent. 

Robert  pushed  the  table  to  one  side.  Thomas, 
standing  near  the  closed  door,  watched  him  curiously. 
A  burst  of  cheering  from  the  men  outside  the  gates 


was  the  cue  for  which  Robert  might  have  been  wait- 
ing. 

"Your  friends  are  rather  noisy,  to-night,"  he  said, 
with  a  cynical  smile.  "Why  have  you  left  them?" 

Thomas  frowned  dismally,  and  shot  out  his  nether 

HP. 

"I  came  to  advise  you  for  your  own  good,  Robert 
MacWhinnie,"  he  said. 

"Very  noisy,"  mused  Robert,  as  though  he  hadn't 
heard ;  "but  they'll  find  that  it  isn't  a  brainless  fanatic 
they  have  to  deal  with.  One  fool  is  enough  in  any 
family." 

Thomas  shifted  his  position. 

"Guard  your  tongue,"  he  said  warningly,  "or  I'll 
forget  that  you  are  any  brother  of  mine." 

"Forget!  You'll  forget?"  Robert's  great  shoul- 
ders were  moving  rhythmically.  "I've  already  forgot- 
ten. It  would  be  an  insult  to  my  intelligence — an  af- 
front to — to  my  little  girl  to  regard  you  as  a  brother." 
He  laughed  outright,  and  it  was  a  dangerous  laugh. 
"Why,  your  friends  outside  those  gates  would  jeer  at 
me  for  a  fool  if  they  heard  me  call  you  'brother.' ' 

Thomas  was  not  without  a  certain  amount  of  cour- 
age, and  although  it  was  patent  to  his  eyes  that  the 
man  in  front  of  him  was  near  to  desperation,  he  stood 
his  ground  and  was  ready  to  fling  back  taunt  for  taunt. 

"One  fool  in  a  family !"  he  echoed.  "We're  agreed 
on  that  point.  Do  we  rightly  understand  which  mem- 
ber of  the  family  is  the  fool?" 

A  fusillade  of  stones  rattled  against  the  yard  gates. 

"Your  friends  are  impatient,"  said  Robert,  still  in 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  PRIDE  273 

that  cold,  cynical  tone  of  voice.  "What  message  have 
you  brought  from  them?" 

"Robert  MacWhinnie,  keep  a  tight  hold  of  your 
tongue !  I'm  here  to  help  you  with  advice." 

Robert  straightened  himself,  until  he  towered  high 
above  his  brother. 

"To  help  me!  You!  After  lighting  the  fire  which 
you  hoped  would  burn  me — and  my  little  girl;  after 
applying  the  torch  to  that  mass  of  brushwood!  You 
talk  about  helping  me.  My  dear  fool,  your  proper 
place  is  out  there,  among  them;  you  should  be  stand- 
ing on  a  platform  in  their  midst,  waving  your  arms 
about  and  shrieking  and  exhorting.  Brother  of  mine  F 
My  eldest  brother  is  dead.  The  brother  for  whom  I 
tried  to  do  so  much  died  a  long  while  ago." 

"You  think  that  I  am  responsible  for  what  is  hap- 
pening out  there?" 

"I'm  certain  of  it.  They  are  shouting  your  name. 
Listen!  Three  cheers  for  Tom  MacWhinnie!' 
Doesn't  it  thrill  you?  They  call  you  'Tom.'  Listen 
again !  Can't  you  hear  them  saying  'He  is  so  loyal  to 
us  that  he  would  betray  his  own  brother'  ?" 

Robert's  eyes  were  blazing,  and  his  hands  were 
opening  and  shutting. 

"I  heard  of  it  only  a  few  hours  ago,"  Thomas  said 
protestingly. 

"That  was  before  the  flame  burst  out ;  you  knew  that 
the  match  had  been  applied.  What  a  triumph  for  you ! 
Betrayed  his  own  brother,  and  his  brother's  little  girl ! 
And  if  David  and  Jamie  had  been  here,  the  triumph 
would  have  been  all  the  greater." 


THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 


"I  have  come  to  help  you.  The  men  outside  sent 
for  me  to  arbitrate.  That  was  a  concession  to  you." 

"Oh!  Wonderful!  What  did  they  say  when  they 
sent  for  you  —  'Come  along,  Iscariot;  the  kiss  is  the 
signal'?" 

"You  are  wronging  me." 

"No  one  could  do  that." 

"You're  making  me  responsible  for  your  own  folly 
and  conceit  It  has  been  coming  about  for  a  long 
while  —  ever  since  you  became  too  big  for  your  shoes  — 
ever  since  you  became  the  gentleman  of  the  family  — 
ever  since  the  family  became  too  humble  for  you  to 
recognize  them." 

A  storm  of  yells  from  the  men  outside. 

"Very  impatient."  Robert  flung  open  the  office 
door.  "What  message  did  you  bring?" 

Thomas  squared  himself,  and  set  his  broad-brimmed 
hat  at  a  firmer  angle. 

"The  men  are  willing  to  return  to  work,"  he  said, 
with  some  show  of  dignity,  "if  you  consent  to  discuss 
terms  with  me  or  any  representative  they  may  feel  dis- 
posed to  select." 

Robert  made  a  most  exaggerated  bow. 

"How  kind  of  them  !  How  kind  of  you  !  How  they 
must  respect  you  !  And  honor  you  !"  He  was  fast  los- 
ing control  of  himself.  All  sense  of  brotherhood  had 
already  departed.  This  man  before  him  was  a 
stranger,  a  menace  —  a  menace  to  the  happiness  of  his 
little  girl,  Mori.  He  wasn't  thinking  of  himself,  in 
that  moment.  Mori  filled  his  thoughts.  Here  was  the 
danger  to  her  of  which  he  had  dreamed.  The  shouts 
of  execration  that  were  going  up  outside  the  gates  were 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  PRIDE  275 

directed  at  her.  The  threatening  attitude  of  the  man 
near  him  was  because  of  the  child. 

"It  can  be  settled  in  five  minutes,"  Thomas  mut- 
tered ;  and,  now,  he  was  watching  a  light  in  the  other's 
eyes — a  light  he  had  never  before  seen. 

"Five  minutes!"  Robert  flung  off  his  coat.  "It 
will  not  take  so  long  as  that.  They  shall  have  their 
answer  in  less  than  a  minute."  He  strode  to  the  open 
door  and  raised  his  voice  for  MacGowan.  "Swing 
open  the  gates,  MacGowan,"  he  shouted,  "and  tell 
them  that  I  am  bringing  the  answer." 

Then  he  turned  upon  the  quivering  Thomas  and 
gripped  him  around  the  middle. 

"You  have  given  them  one  lesson  in  brotherly 
love,"  he  cried;  "they  shall  have  another." 

In  vain  Thomas  struggled  to  free  himself.  The 
arms  that  held  him  were  as  strong  as  steel  bands — 
Mori's  face,  dancing  before  the  eyes  of  the  desperate 
Robert,  were  strengthening  them.  MacGowan  raced 
on  ahead,  shouting  as  he  raced.  Once  he  turned  back, 
and,  flinging  the  restraint  of  the  employee  aside,  held 
out  his  brawny  arms :  "Gi'e  him  to  me,  sir,"  he  cried ; 
but  Robert  was  making  light  of  his  burden;  he  was 
nearly  up  to  the  gates.  MacGowan  opened  the  side 
door.  Robert  pushed  his  way  through.  The  amazed 
men  outside  moved  back,  and  there  was  silence  for  a 
second.  Thomas  was  still  struggling  and  shouting. 

"Your  answer!"  cried  Robert,  and  with  a  heave  of 
the  shoulders  he  hurled  Thomas  against  the  foremost 
of  the  strikers. 

"Judas !"  yelled  MacGowan. 


276  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

And  then  the  stones  came — volley  after  volley. 
MacGowan  leaped  in  front  of  Robert,  but  not  before 
a  flint  had  struck  the  white,  quivering  cheek.  The 
blood  spurted  as  Robert  stumbled  forward,  dazed  and 
helpless.  MacGowan  picked  him  up  as  though  he  were 
a  child.  Someone,  more  daring  than  the  rest,  surged 
forward.  MacGowan  might  have  anticipated  this,  for 
he  turned,  and  freeing  his  right  hand  swung  hard  for 
the  face.  The  next  minute  he  was  through  the  gate, 
the  bolts  were  shot  into  their  sockets,  and  setting 
Robert  on  his  feet,  he  assisted  him  to  the  office.  The 
hammering  on  the  gates  ceased  abruptly,  the  shouts 
died  down;  the  men  were  drawing  off.  "Mebbe  the 
police ;  mebbe  Judas,"  growled  MacGowan. 

In  the  office,  Robert  bathed  his  wounded  cheek,  then 
sank  dejectedly  into  a  chair  at  the  table,  resting  his 
forehead  in  the  palms  of  his  hands.  A  great  weariness 
came  over  him.  "Leave  me  a  while,  MacGowan,"  he 
said,  in  a  tired  voice.  "If  the  police  are  there,  give 
them  every  assistance.  I'm  all  right" — as  the  burly 
manager  bent  over  his  shoulder — "just  a  little  dazed — 
that's  all." 

But  MacGowan  was  away  only  a  few  minutes.  He 
returned  to  the  office.  "Mr.  MacWhinnie,"  he  said, 
in  a  whisper. 

Robert  turned  slowly,  and  then  he  sprang  to  his 
feet,  his  eyes  lowered. 

"Margaret !"  he  cried  faintly. 

She  was  leaning  against  the  door  which  MacGowan 
had  closed,  and  there  was  as  great  embarrassment  in 
her  face  as  in  his.  She  must  have  hurried  in  her  jour- 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  PRIDE  277 

ney;  her  cheeks  glowed,  and  for  a  while  she  was  un- 
able to  speak.  At  last  she  said : 

"We  heard  of  this  only  half  an  hour  ago.  I  rowed 
across  the  river.  My  father  would  have  come  him- 
self, had  he  not  been  indisposed.  There  was  no  one 
else,  save — save  me.  Is  it  very  serious  ?" 

"It  is  very  serious,"  said  Robert,  making  no  attempt 
to  mask  his  fears. 

"One  of  your  own  men  brought  the  news  to  father," 
she  said,  "an  old  apprentice  of  Drender  and  Masters 
— so  that  father  had  little  time  to  do  anything." 

"To  do  anything?"  Robert  echoed,  still  in  that 
strained,  whispering  voice. 

"You  have  his  deep  sympathy." 

"I  thank  him  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,"  said 
Robert.  "It  was  what  I  might  have  expected  from 
Mr.  John  Drender." 

"And  mine,"  she  added,  and  lowered  her  eyes  even 
as  his  were  lowered. 

He  made  no  reply  to  that,  but  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  twitched. 

"Father  said  that  according  to  his  reckoning  you'd 
be  placed  in  a  very  difficult  position." 

"We  have  only  four  days,"  said  Robert,  "in  which 
to  finish  a  very  important  contract,  one  on  the  suc- 
cessful execution  of  which  the  firm's  chances  practi- 
cally depend." 

She  nodded  sympathetically. 

"I  think  that  my  father  must  have  known  that,"  she 
said,  "because  he  gave  me  some  hint  of  it.  This  let- 
ter"—she  handed  it  to  him— "he  wrote  himself.  He 
said  that  you  would  understand." 


278  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Robert's  eyelids  flickered  as  he  recognized  the  fa- 
miliar handwriting.  John  Drender  had  written : 

"ROBERT  MACWHINNIE. — Drender  and  Masters  gave  you 
your  start.  For  the  sake  of  the  reputation  of  our  firm  we 
can't  see  you  go  down.  I  understand  that  you  have  a  local 
strike,  and  that  you  have  only  four  days  in  which  to  finish 
a  big  contract.  I  don't  know  who's  to  blame,  but  I  think  I 
could  put  my  hand  on  him.  Take  my  advice,  and  make 
your  yard  as  private  as  you  would  your  bedroom.  Blood 
may  be  thicker  than  water,  but  there  are  times  when  it  may 
become  too  thick  for  circulation.  We're  running  short  time 
at  the  works  here,  and  we  have  five  hundred  men  who 
would  be  only  too  glad  to  work  overtime — to  work  double 
shifts,  if  you  like.  We  can  finish  the  job  for  you  at  a  price 
that'll  not  hurt  you;  but  I'm  thinking  that  if  you  show  that 
hand  to  the  men  outside  your  gates  they  won't  hesitate  long !" 

The  letter  was  shaking ;  she  knew  that  his  heart  was 
full. 

"Father  regards  your  firm  with  a  great  deal  of  af- 
fection," she  said  softly,  adding,  as  though  she  would 
lessen  the  significance  of  the  offer:  "He  was  always 
the  same ;  he  takes  so  much  interest  in  those  who  have 
learned  their  profession  under  his  eye." 

Robert  folded  the  letter.  Although  his  eyes  were 
averted,  she  filled  his  vision. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  he  murmured;  "this 
has  taken  all  the  strength  out  of  me." 

He  ventured  another  glance.  She  had  placed  one 
hand  on  the  door ;  her  big  eyes  were  glowing. 

"There  was  no  one  else  to  bring  it" — as  though 
some  excuse  were  needed  for  her  presence. 

"Some  day,"  he  said  dreamily,  "some  day  I  shall 
tell  you  how  much  I  appreciate " 


THE  STRENGTH  OF  PRIDE  279 

MacGowan  opened  the  door.  Robert  beckoned  to 
him,  and  again  unfolded  John  Drender's  letter. 

"I'll  write  a  notice,  and  get  you  to  fix  it  on  the  gates, 
MacGowan.  Meanwhile,  go  down  to  the  water  and 
make  ready  the  dinghy  there;  I'm  going  to  row  Miss 
Drender  across  the  river;  then  I'll  return  for  you." 


CHAPTER   XI 

WHERE  DUTY   ENDS 

THERE  was  no  need  for  Robert  to  avail  himself 
of  the  offer  made  by  Mr.  Drender;  in  itself,  it 
was  sufficient  to  show  the  men  the  folly  of  the 
attitude  they  had  been  induced  to  take  up.  The  prom- 
ise which  had  been  held  out  to  them  of  a  speedy  vic- 
tory was  more  than  nullified  by  the  fear  that  Capital, 
after  all,  was  the  stronger — that  when  capitalists  chose 
to  unite  their  forces  or  to  bring  up  reinforcements  to 
those  who  appeared  to  be  weakening  in  the  battle,  La- 
bor had  nothing  to  fall  back  upon.  Moreover,  the 
generous  position  which  Robert  had  taken  up,  the  open 
manner  in  which  he  had  bared  his  confidences  to  them, 
appealed  more  strongly  to  their  sense  of  justice  as  hour 
succeeded  hour.  They  went  back,  and  as  a  result  of 
the  eruption,  loyalty  received  stimulus  rather  than  the 
reverse,  because  Robert  was  careful  not  to  convey  a 
sense  of  defeat  to  their  minds.  A  few  tactful  words 
left  them  with  the  belief  that  a  moral  victory  had  been 
gained  by  both  sides,  and  that,  after  all,  is  the  most 
desirable  end  to  all  quarrels. 

Events  followed  each  other  quickly.  Robert  seemed 
not  to  have  rested  from  the  moment  the  ultimatum 
was  presented  until,  at  last,  the  Chilian  contract  was 

280 


WHERE  DUTY  ENDS  281 

completed,  and  he  could  afford  to  lean  back  and  say, 
"Now,  I  can  look  about  me !" 

During  the  period  of  stress  no  word  was  received 
from  the  prodigal  brothers,  and  it  was  not  until  Dick 
Morrow  returned  from  a  visit  to  the  country,  and  came 
to  the  house,  that  Robert  allowed  his  thoughts  to  turn 
to  them.  Dick  had  been  on  a  journey  of  investigation, 
and  the  news  of  the  "ten-minute  strike,"  as  the  news- 
papers called  it,  was  unknown  to  him  until  he  re- 
turned. It  was  long  after  dinner  when  he  reached  the 
house,  and  everyone,  save  Robert,  was  in  bed.  Dick 
was  agitated,  almost  to  the  point  of  bitterness. 

"As  soon  as  I  learned  the  facts,"  he  said,  striding  to 
and  fro  in  the  study,  "I  came  straight  away  to  see  you. 
My  dear  old  fellow,  you've  had  a  rough  time,  and  I 
can  well  imagine  how  you  felt,  to  be  standing  there 
fighting  a  lone  hand." 

Robert  was  lying  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  hands 
folded  behind  his  head.  The  mental  and  physical 
strain  of  the  last  few  days  had  paled  him  somewhat, 
and  he  was  content  to  nod  and  smile. 

"Fighting  a  lone  hand,"  Dick  repeated,  "and  any- 
thing might  have  happened." 

"No,  no,  Dick,"  said  Robert  quietly.  "We're  not 
in  the  wilds  now.  You're  talking  as  though  we  were 
back  in  Sendai,  building  bridges  with  ill-paid  labor. 
There  was  some  chance  of  a  rough-up  in  those  days." 

"I've  read  the  papers,"  Dick  interrupted,  with  a 
shake  of  the  head,  as  to  imply  that  nothing  could  be 
hidden  from  him.  "Those  men  showed  that  they  had 
carefully  sized  up  the  situation  before  they  attempted 


282  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

to  strike.  They  knew  that  you  were  anxious  about 
this  contract — « — " 

Robert  waved  his  hand  deprecatingly. 

"We  can't  blame  them  for  that,"  he  said,  still  in  the 
quiet  voice  of  one  who  is  content  to  let  the  past  bury 
itself.  "You  would  have  blamed  them  had  they  gone 
into  the  fight  without  any  preparation,  without  a 
weapon  of  any  sort.  Of  course,  it  was  their  only 
chance,  if  they  needed  a  chance,  although,  God  knows, 
I've  always  tried  to  be  fair." 

"You  couldn't  be  unfair,  if  you  tried,  Robert." 

"Don't  attribute  to  me  qualities  I  don't  possess, 
Dick.  I  can  drive  as  hard  a  bargain  as  any  man." 

Dick  turned  his  head,  and,  speaking  in  a  lower  tone, 
said: 

"I  don't  know  what  your  thoughts  on  the  matter 
are,  Robert,  so  I  can't  say  how  you'll  receive  my  com- 
ments; but  the  thing  that  has  hurt  me  most  in  this 
business  is  the — the  estrangement  between  you  and 
your  brothers." 

Robert's  eyelids  drooped  for  a  second.  In  the  midst 
of  this  trouble,  he  had  striven  manfully  to  set  "family 
affairs"  on  one  side. 

"Come,  Dick,"  he  said  gently,  "you're  talking  as 
though  you  were  part  of  Robert  MacWhinnie  him- 
self- 

"Sometimes  I  think  I  am,"  was  the  reply. 

" and  that  what  affects  me  must  necessarily  af- 
fect you." 

"I'm  supposed  to  be  a  Christian  man,"  said  Dick 
solemnly,  "but  if  what  I  hear  is  true,  I  shall  find  it 
difficult  to  forgive  them.  They  left  you — didn't  they?" 


WHERE  DUTY  ENDS  283 

"They  are  men,  Dick.  They  have  their  own  careers 
before  them.  They  are  entitled  to  look  ahead,  and  to 
strive  to  make  a  niche  for  themselves." 

"They  came  to  you  like  prodigal  sons,  demanding 
their  portion " 

"Someone  seems  to  have  been  talking  about  mat- 
ters that  don't  concern  them." 

"They  came  to  you — you,  who  had  done  so  much 
for  them — and  at  a  time  when  you  most  needed  their 
sympathy,  they  cut  themselves  adrift,  and  left  you  to 
fight  the  battle  alone." 

"Someone's  been  talking  very  loudly,"  murmured 
Robert,  with  a  faint  smile  that  hinted  at  his  not  being 
displeased  that  someone  should  have  talked. 

"They  must  have  known  that  this  labor  trouble  was 
in  the  air." 

"Let's  be  charitable,"  came  from  the  tired  man  in 
the  chair.  "It's  not  like  you,  Dick,  to  reveal  a  vin- 
dictive spirit." 

Dick  came  to  rest  opposite  his  old  friend — came 
into  the  arc  of  light  thrown  by  the  reading  lamp  on 
the  table,  so  that  Robert  could  see  the  working  of  the 
nomad's  rugged  face. 

"Robert,"  he  said,  in  a  softer  voice,  "I  didn't  know 
that  I  had  a  vindictive  spirit,  until  I  learned  this  story 
of  the  breaking  away  of  your  brothers,  and  I  suppose 
— I  suppose  that  I  shouldn't  be  sitting  here  talking  to 
you  about  them  as  though  I  were  their  judge.  But  you 
and  I  are  not  ordinary  friends." 

"No,"  whispered  Robert  gratefully. 

"I'd  like  to  say  more  than  that,  but  I  hate  playing 
the  woman,  even  to  a  fellow  like  you." 


284-  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"There's  no  need  to  say  any  more,"  said  Robert. 
"Friends  such  as  we  have  no  use  for  words  when  try- 
ing to  estimate  friendship." 

"And  if  I'm  disposed  to  roast  these — these  prodi- 
gals— you're  not  likely  to  get  up  and  order  me  out  of 
the  house." 

Robert  laughed  at  the  suggestion. 

"Because  I  shouldn't  go,  even  if  you  did,"  said  Dick. 
...  "I  myself  have  no  brothers,  so,  perhaps,  I  am 
unable  to  preach  about  what  we  may  call  the  duty  of 
one  brother  to  another." 

Robert  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"My  dear  Dick,"  he  said,  "why  upset  yourself  about 
them?  Everything  is  settled.  The  battle's  over,  and 
the  firm  is  going  to  move  ahead  as  though  nothing  had 
happened.  That's  something  to  be  thankful  for,  so 
why  let  the  past  come  back  like  a  gray  phantom?" 

"I  have  no  brothers,"  Dick  repeated  slowly,  "but  if 
I  had,  and  they  behaved  to  me  as  yours  did  to 
you " 

"Well?" — with  a  quiet  smile. 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  have  brothers  any  longer." 

"I've  always  feared  that  a  mistake  was  made  when 
they  put  you  into  the  missionary  profession." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Dick  quite  seriously ;  "other- 
wise, I  might  have  been  hanged  for  homicide.  My 
dear  Robert,  for  a  long  while  now  I  have  taken  the 
liberty  of  looking  into  your  life " 

Robert  reached  for  his  pipe,  so  that  the  shadow  that 
flitted  across  his  face  was  unnoticed  by  his  friend. 

"And  I'm  beginning  to  realize  how  big  you  are." 


WHERE  DUTY  ENDS 285 

"Only  beginning,  Dick?  And  yet  you  used  to  say 
such  nice  things  about  my  work  out  yonder." 

"Leave  work  alone  for  a  minute.  Let's  get — let's 
get  nearer  to  each  other,  Robert.  I  don't  owe  you  a 
cent  that  I  know  of,  except  what  I've  borrowed  from 
you  in  the  name  of  charity,  so  that  I'm  at  liberty  to 
speak  my  mind.  You're  the  only  man  in  the  world 
whom  I  have  been  able  to  call  friend,  investing  the 
word  with  everything  that  it  means.  Robert,  you've 
been  the  leaning  post  too  long." 

"My  dear  Dick,  I  don't  think  that  you've  met  my 
brothers  more  than  three  times  in  your  life." 

"Perhaps  not ;  but  I  summed  them  up  the  first  time. 
They  might  have  been  exceedingly  clever  men,  if  you 
hadn't  spoiled  them." 

"Darts  come  from  all  quarters,"  said  Robert,  feign- 
ing reproach  fulness. 

"It's  true,"  said  Dick,  shaking  his  head  vigorously. 
"Look  at  it  calmly.  Think  it  out.  Analyze  the  situa- 
tion without  leaving  a  single  part  untouched,  and  what 
would  be  the  result?  You  must  realize  that  your 
great-heartedness,  your  disposition  to  play  the  fairy 
godfather  at  every  turn,  has  robbed  them  of  the  most 
valuable  asset  a  man  can  have — independence  of  spirit. 
If  they  had  been  compelled  to  start  life  as  you  started 
it,  they  might  have  done  as  much,  and  more.  Instead 
of  that,  you've  taught  them  to  prop  their  shoulders 
against  that  metaphorical  leaning  post,  and  to  expect 
somebody  or  everybody  to  do  their  work  for  them." 

"Dick!  Dick!  You're  forgetting  your  profes- 
sion." 

"I'm  not.     It's  because  I  feel  that  one  of  the  first 


286  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

duties  in  that  profession  is  to  make  men  out  of  neg- 
lected material  that  I'm  speaking  to  you  like  this. 
Robert,  it  may  sound  incongruous  in  me  to  say  it,  but 
there  is  a  limit  to  forbearance.  To  go  beyond  that 
limit  is  very  near  to  sin.  You  didn't  take  up  the  right 
attitude  when  they  came  to  you  for  their  portion." 

"Do  tell  me  who's  been  talking,  Dick  ?" 

Dick  gave  him  a  quick  glance. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  won't  tell  you,  because  it  wouldn't 
help — 'just  now.  But  it's  obvious  that  the  person  was 
well-informed.  Bless  me!  I  was  told  of  the  exact 
amount  you  parted  with,  and  yet" — he  smiled  dryly — 
"I  have  to  go  on  my  hands  and  knees  to  you  for  a 
paltry  hundred.  No,  you  should  have  been  strong 
then,  Robert,  much  stronger  than  you  were.  Because 
they  were  your  brothers,  you  had  no  right  to  assume 
that  they  were  not  men." 

"Steady,  Dick!" 

"Oh,  I'm  going  steadily!  There's  a  lot  more  to 
come — because  I'm  going  away,  Robert." 

"Going  away?  Again?"  The  smile  left  Robert's 
face. 

"And  I  may  not  have  another  opportunity  of  telling 
you  of  all  that's  in  my  mind,  and  has  been  there  for  a 
long  while.  I  don't  know  your  brother  Thomas.  If  I 
should  have  an  opportunity  of  meeting  him " 

Robert  rose  from  his  chair  and  went  over  to  his 
friend. 

"Look  here,  Dick,"  he  said,  "you're  a  good  fellow, 
one  of  the  best  I  have  ever  met,  but  it's  obvious  to  me 
that  you  don't  know  as  much  as  you  profess  to  know 
about  me  and  the  members  of  my  family.  So  don't 


WHERE  DUTY  ENDS  287 

say  any  more,  because  it  might  hurt  both  you  and  me. 
Family  claims  are  not  to  be  discussed  like  this." 

Dick  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  walked  across  the 
room. 

"I  don't  want  to  say  anything  that  would  hurt  you, 
Robert,"  he  said ;  "but  it's  my  experience  that  family 
claims  give  rise  to  more  unhappiness,  they  stifle  more 
ambition,  they  crush  more  hopes,  than  any  other  phase 
of  human  life.  I  know  that  I'm  not  talking  like  a  mis- 
sionary. I  confess  that  I  don't  feel  like  one,  at  the 
moment.  I'm  putting  myself  in  your  place,  or  trying 
to,  and  the  nearer  I  get  to  it  the  harder  I  want  to 
strike  out  in  your  defense." 

"My  dear  boy,  I'm  quite  strong  enough  to  defend 
myself." 

"I  know  you  are,  but  you're  not  strong  enough  to 
understand  yourself.  You  never  attempt  to  ask  the 
why  and  the  wherefore.  You're  an  anomaly.  You're 
an  enigma  to  me,  because  you're  so  unnaturally  good — 
I  nearly  said  soft,  which  is  a  word  that  is  possibly 
more  familiar  to  you  than  to  me.  I  know  what  you've 
done  for  the  MacWhinnie  family.  I  guessed  it  while 
you  were  out  yonder.  You  were  always  catching  the 
mail,  and  always  with  a  registered  envelope.  No  one 
knows  better  than  I  what  you  went  through  out  yon- 
der. You  suffered  enough  to  crush  a  hundred  men, 
but  you  went  through  it  so  bravely  that  to  judge  from 
your  face  and  your  manner,  you  might  never  have  felt 
it." 

"Why  wear  your  heart  on  your  sleeve  ?" 

"True,  the  world  has  no  sympathy  for  the  lachry- 
mose. The  world  is  terribly  selfish ;  it  must  always  be 


288  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

entertained ;  if  it  can  transmit  jts  sympathy  through 
a  wave  of  laughter,  so  much  the  better.  I  wonder  if 
they,  your  brothers,  have  any  knowledge  of  all  you 
suffered  out  there,  and,  if  they  have,  what  do  they 
think  of  it?" 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  them,  Dick,  although  you 
think  you  do !  They're  good  boys,  all  of  them,  and  no 
matter  what  you  may  say,  I  shall  never  feel  that  the 
duty  I  owe  them  is  liquidated." 

"What  duty?" 

"They  had  to  stand  by  while  I  was  given  my  chance. 
Those  were  the  days  when  we  counted,  not  only  our 
pennies,  but  the  mouthfuls  with  which  we  were  fed. 
iYou  argue  that  they  ought  to  be  grateful  to  me  for 
what  I  was  able  to  do  for  them  when  they  reached 
manhood,  but  you  make  no  allowance  for  what  they 
did  for  me  when  I  was  a  youngster,  and  it's  when 
you're  young  that  you  need  most  help.  They  had  to 
subdue  any  ambitions  they  might  have  had,  in  order 
that  I  should  realize  mine." 

"They  couldn't  put  brains  into  your  head  if  they 
were  not  there  already." 

"You're  ungenerous,  Dick,  and  it  isn't  like  you." 

"But  think  what  you  were  able  to  do  for  them  later 
— what  you  did  for  them.  Why,  it's  hardly  conceiv- 
able that  you  should  have  done  so  much.  It's  a  strain- 
ing of  the  duty  of  brotherhood.  Not  that  I  would 
say  a  word  about  it,  if  they  had  been  blessed  with  the 
slightest  spark  of  gratitude.  It  was  your  money  that 
made  'MacWhinnie  Brothers'  possible.  I  remember 
how  you  used  to  talk  about  that  dream  when  we  were 


WHERE  DUTY  ENDS 289 

in  the  Far  East.  Always,  you  had  before  your  mind  a 
vision  of  a  signboard " 

"Don't,  Dick,"  said  Robert  suddenly. 

"You  haven't  forgotten  the  dream?" 

"No;  but  it  calls  up — other  things." 

"I  know,"  said  Dick,  with  great  tenderness,  and  for 
a  while  neither  of  them  spoke.  On  Dick's  face  there 
was  an  expression  of  sadness  as  deep  as  that  on  Rob- 
ert's. Both  of  them  were  journeying  back  over  the 
twelve  thousand  miles  of  land  and  water. 

And,  after  that  pause,  Dick  went  back  to  his  subject 
as  though  he  were  not  to  be  shaken  off. 

"I  came  here  to-night  to  have  it  out  with  you,  Rob- 
ert," he  said,  "for  you  need  to  have  it  out  with  some- 
body. It's  time  you  awakened." 

"Almost  time  I  was  in  bed,"  said  Robert,  with  a 
little  laugh. 

"What  did  they  say  when  they  heard  of  this  trou- 
ble at  the  works?" 

"Let  the  boys  alone,"  Robert  urged.  "They  have 
enough  trouble  of  their  own  just  now." 

"Ah!  you  know  that,  do  you?  Someone  told  me 
that  you  were  so  preoccupied  with  your  own  affairs 
that  you  were  not  likely  to  have  seen  it — the  failure, 
I  mean." 

"The  failure  of  the  Scottish  Pinion  Company?" 

"After  only  three  months.  What  did  I  say  about 
brains,  just  now?" 

"Don't  be  cruel,  Dick.  I  dare  say  the  boys  didn't 
receive  the  encouragement  they  expected." 

"Certainly  they  didn't  receive  much  financial  back- 
ing, for  according  to  the  papers  the  failure  will  not  be 


290  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

a  heavy  one.  They  lacked  a  head,  and  if  this  failure 
isn't  the  swiftest  retribution " 

Robert  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe. 

"I  do  wish  you'd  alter  that  note,  Dick,"  he  said. 
"You  can't  imagine  how  it  grates.  Even  a  friend,  a 
friend  like  you,  has  no  right  to  assume  that  a  man  can 
listen  calmly  while  his  brothers  are  being  attacked.  I 
tell  you  that  I'm  satisfied  the  boys  did  their  best,  and  I 
would  have  given  anything  to  have  saved  them  this 
setback.  If  it  had  come  in  two  or  three  years'  time, 
it  wouldn't  have  been  so  bad,  because  they  would  have 
gained  at  least  experience  of  managing  a  concern;  and 
it's  no  easy  matter,  Dick." 

"I  suppose  they  had  it  in  their  minds  that  with  the 
capital  they  obtained  from  you  they  would  be  able  suc- 
cessfully to  run  a  concern  of  the  nature  of  the  Scot- 
tish Pinion  Company?" 

"I  don't  know  what  was  in  their  minds,"  said  Rob- 
ert. "I  only  know  that  they  must  be  going  through  a 
heart-breaking  job  just  now." 

"Did  they  appeal  to  you  for  advice  ?" 

"No ;  but  I  sent  it,  all  the  same." 

"You  would — that's  like  you.  And  I'll  wager  that 
it  didn't  stop  at  advice." 

"I'm  a  creditor,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 

"I  thought  so.    And  I  know  another." 

Robert  raised  his  eyes  inquiringly. 

"Mr.  John  Drender,"  said  Dick,  in  a  whisper;  and 
again  there  came  a  period  of  silence.  Then  Robert 
said,  with  the  slightest  break  in  his  voice : 

"I  wish  they'd  told  me  that — I  wish  I  had  known." 
Then,  he  looked  the  question. 


WHERE  DUTY  ENDS 291 

"No,"  said  Dick,  "he  was  not  the  petitioning  cred- 
itor. I  can  tell  you  that  without  fear  of  contradiction. 
In  fact,  I  happen  to  know  that  if  they  had  appealed  to 
Mr.  Drender,  he  would  have  endeavored  to  help  them 
out  of  their  difficulties.  John  Drender  has  a  big  heart, 
Robert.  .  .  .  Have  I  said  anything  to  offend  you  ?" 

"No,"  said  Robert  quietly,  but  his  back  was  turned, 
all  the  same. 

"I'm  a  frequent  visitor  at  Jarrowside,  Robert — you 
know  that?  Since  I  have  been  in  England  I  have  seen 
a  great  deal  both  of  Mr.  Drender  and  his  daughter. 
She's  doing  a  splendid  work,  for  the  sheer  love  of 
working.  I  admire  these  brave,  independent  women 
who  creep  about  furtively  doing  all  the  good  they  can, 
and  fearing  all  the  while  that  someone  will  learn  of  it. 
.  .  .  Yes,  John  Drender  was  a  pretty  substantial  cred- 
itor." 

"Let's  talk  of  something  else,"  said  Robert,  catching 
at  his  breath. 

"Yes,  if  it  pleases  you,  old  fellow.  But  before  we 
leave  the  subject,  I  should  dearly  like  to  learn  what 
you  intend  to  do  in  the  matter  of  the  Scottish  Pinion 
Company." 

"I've  already  done  it,"  said  Robert.  "The  boys  are 
coming  back.  The  firm  of  MacWhinnie  Brothers  is 
making  a  fresh  start." 


CHAPTER   XII 

A   NIGHT   OF   CONFIDENCES 

FOR  fully  a  minute  after  Robert's  statement  Dick 
Morrow  stared  at  him  in  amazement.  Then 
the  outburst : 

"Is  there  no  limit  to  your  generosity?  Man,  do 
you  never  think  of  yourself?"  And  before  Robert 
could  reply,  the  missionary  overcame  the  candid 
friend.  Dick  reached  for  Robert's  hand.  "You  may 
never  receive  here  the  appreciation  you  deserve,"  he 
said,  "but  a  man  cannot  do  all  that  you've  done  and 
be  overlooked." 

He  walked  to  the  door,  keeping  his  eyes  down. 
Robert  called  to  him :  "You're  not  gx)ing,  Dick  ?" 

"I'm  only  going  to  close  this  door,"  said  Dick.  Then 
he  came  back,  and  Robert  could  see  by  the  expression 
of  his  face  that  he  was  struggling  with  a  doubt.  He 
sat  down  on  his  chair,  got  up  again,  and  walked  about 
the  floor ;  he  charged  his  pipe,  lighted  it,  and  allowed  it 
to  go  out.  And  at  last  it  came.  He  was  standing  be- 
hind Robert  at  the  time,  resting  a  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der. 

"Robert,"  he  said,  in  a  low  breath,  and  his  face  was 
working  pitiably,  "give  me  all  the  latitude  you  can.  I 
told  you  a  little  while  ago  that  I  was  going  away  again. 
It  may  be  for  the  last  time.  .  .  .  No,  I'm  not  going  to 

292 


A  NIGHT  OF  CONFIDENCES  293 

trot  out  all  the  old  platitudes.  You  know  me  better 
than  that.  But  you  know,  also,  the  chances  a  man  has 
to  take  in  the  East,  especially  when  those  hours  of 
loneliness  come,  when  he  wonders  if  he's  doing  any- 
thing in  the  Big  Scheme  that  is  worthy  of  notice,  and 
doubts.  .  .  .  I'm  going  away,  because  I  like  taking 
chances,  but  perhaps  there's  another  reason.  Here, 
I'm  too  fettered.  I  don't  get  the  air  my  lungs  need.  I 
never  feel  that — well,  that  I'm  a  missionary.  I  feel 
too  much  like  a  paid  servant — not  that  they  pay  much. 
That's  a  deplorable  confession  for  a  missionary  to 
make.  Nevertheless,  I'm  sincere.  Everything  here  is 
so  terribly  congested.  There  are  no  openings  in  the 
press  through  which  the  wind  may  sweep.  And 
there's  a  lack  of  understanding  among  the  people,  a 
lack  of  sympathy.  I  know  what  is  on  your  lips;  but 
I've  confessed  to  you  over  and  over  again  that  as  a 
missionary  I'm  something  of  an  anomaly,  as  I  said 
about  you.  I  can  do  good  work  out  in  the  wild  places ; 
I  know  I  can;  I've  had  proof  of  it  again  and  again. 
I  take  credit  for  having  made  some  really  first-class 
men  out  of  the  blackest  material,  inside  and  out,  that 
ever  lived  in  the  corners  of  the  world.  And  it's  been 
work  that  I  joyed  in,  and  I  don't  mind  telling  you 
why :  it's  helped  me  to  forget  things  that  I  was  all  the 
better  for  forgetting.  .  .  .  Don't  interrupt  me,  Rob- 
ert. This  is  an  opportunity  that  may  never  occur 
again,  and  I  do  want  to  take  advantage  of  it,  every 
minute,  Robert"— he  stooped  a  little,  so  that  his  brow 
almost  touched  Robert's  crown — "since  we've  been  to- 
gether this  time  we  have  never  mentioned  her  name — > 
once." 


294  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Jean,"  said  Robert,  without  moving  his  lips. 

"Yes — 'Jean,"  said  Dick.  "And  yet,  I've  known  all 
along  that  you  wanted  to  speak  about  her." 

"I  was  thinking  of  you,  old  man." 

"Yes,  you're  always  thinking  of  the  other  fellow.  I 
wonder  if  you  have  any  idea  of  what  her  death  meant 
to  me?  I  don't  think  I  myself  have  any  adequate  idea, 
because  when  I  allow  my  mind  to  dwell  on  it,  I  can 
hardly  believe  that  God  could  have  been  so  cruel. 
.  .  .  No,  Robert,  forget  that.  It  wasn't  right.  But  a 
man  does  become  embittered." 

Robert  raised  his  hand  over  his  shoulder,  and  Dick 
grasped  it. 

"When  she  died,  Robert — and  this  is  an  awful  thing 
for  any  man  to  say,  and  especially  so  in  my  case — I 
almost  became  a  skeptic.  But  you  saved  me." 

"I  ?" 

"Yes,  you.  Just  for  a  while  I  felt  as  though  a 
small  world  had  fallen  on  my  shoulders.  I  was  groan- 
ing beneath  the  weight.  I  felt  that  it  would  be  better 
to  sink  beneath  it.  And  then  I  saw  another  man — you 
— and  on  your  shoulders  was  a  world  greater  than 
mine,  and  on  your  face  was  the  smile  of  the  hero. 
You  made  me  feel  a  horrible  coward.  You  were  bear- 
ing your  greater  burden  with  so  much  pluck,  with  so 
much  sunshine  in  your  face,  though  all  the  while  your 
heart  must  have  been  bursting;  while  I — I  was  whin- 
ing ;  and  yet  I  should  have  been  the  stronger,  because 
of  the  Service  into  which  I  had  entered." 

Robert  was  holding  his  breath,  and  staring  straight 
in  front  of  him. 

"You  did  a  wonderful  lot  for  me  in  those  days, 


A  NIGHT  OF  CONFIDEXCES  295 

Robert,"  Dick  went  on.  "In  the  years  that  immedi- 
ately followed  her  death,  I  attempted  much  from  which 
others  shrank;  but  when  it  was  sought  to  give  me 
credit  for  it,  I  felt  like  turning  round  and  shouting, 
shouting  at  the  top  of  my  voice:  Thank  Robert 
MacWhinnie,  not  me !'  And  then  I  came  home  to  find 
you  here,  not  relieved  of  your  burden,  but  shouldering 
even  a  greater.  Robert,  old  man,  do  you  know  that 
you're  not  nearly  so  young  as  you  used  to  be?  I  no- 
ticed it  to-night,  when  I  came  in  first.  Your  hair's 
grayer,  and  although  you  pretend  to  think  nothing  of 
the  injustices,  of  the  pain,  of  the  ingratitude  that  have 
been  your  portion,  I  think  I  can  see  beneath  that  grave 
smile  of  yours.  In  fact,  I  know  I  can.  .  .  .  Robert! 
.  .  .  Robert,  I  know  of  your  love  for  Margaret  Dren- 
der." 

He  didn't  move. 

"I  didn't  know  the  whole  of  the  facts  until  a  month 
ago.  You  will  remember  that  while  out  yonder  you 
never  mentioned  the  name  of  the  woman  who  was  in- 
spiring you,  the  woman  for  whose  sake  you  were  al- 
ways climbing,  climbing.  I  came  back,  and  I  hardly 
liked  to  tell  even  you,  the  broadest-minded  man  in  the 
world,  why  I  came.  I  told  you  that  it  was  for  a  rest, 
or  something  like  that;  but  it  wasn't,  Robert.  At  the 
time  I  decided  to  come,  I  was  away  up  in  the  north 
of  Manchuria,  and  then,  as  always,  I  was  practically 
without  money.  But  something  urged  me  to  come. 
It  was  time,  so  the  something  said,  that  I  stirred  my- 
self, and  showed  a  deeper  appreciation  of  a  great 
man's  friendship  than  thinking  kindly  of  him  while 
sitting  in  a  mud  hut  in  the  swamps.  Something  said : 


296 


'Morrow,  you've  never  tried  to  get  beneath  that  quiet, 
cheerful  smile  of  Robert  MacWhinnie.'  I  wanted  to 
do  something  for  you,  Robert,  and  I  felt  that  I  could 
do  it.  Believe  me,  I  was  ignorant  of  the  true  state  of 
things  at  that  time ;  but  I  got  down  to  Vladivostock  by 
degrees,  and — I'm  not  saying  this  to  enlist  your  sym- 
pathies— I  came  back  to  England  as  a  stoker  on  a 
tramp  steamer.  And  then  I  learned  the  truth.  .  .  . 
Robert,  you  still  love  her.  You  have  always  loved  her. 
There  has  been  only  one  woman  in  your  life  since  you 
were  a  young  man,  and  she's  going  to  remain  in  your 
life  until  the  material  Robert  MacWhinnie  has  passed 
on.  And  here  you  are,  suffering  in  silence,  receiving 
all  the  slings  and  arrows  without  a  murmur — without 
the  sympathy  of  a  single  soul." 

"You're  wrong,  Dick — you're  wrong,"  came  from 
Robert,  and  his  voice  was  very  weak.  "I  have  the 
sympathy  of  one." 

"Robert,  you  have  her  sympathy.  She,  too,  is  suf- 
fering in  silence,  and,  like  you,  she's  going  about  with 
a  brave  face,  as  though  nothing  had  ever  happened  to 
lead  her  away  from  happiness.  Why  don't  you  go  to 
her,  Robert?  Do  you  know  that  she's  waiting  there, 
waiting  a  word  from  you  ?  Why  do  you  allow  her  to 
suffer?  Why  do  you  allow  yourself  to  suffer?" 

"It  isn't  all  suffering,"  said  Robert  quietly.  "And 
there  are  reasons,  Dick,  which  must  be  kept  even  from 
you,  old  friend." 

"They  cannot  be  kept  from  me,  Robert,  because  I 
know  them  already." 

He  came  from  behind  the  chair,  and  Robert  rose  to 


A  NIGHT  OF  CONFIDENCE;*  2S7 

his  feet,  his  lips  parted,  and  in  his  eyes  an  expression 
almost  of  fear. 

"It's  true,"  said  Dick,  and  his  words  were  all  bro- 
ken. "It  was  Jean  who  told  me."  His  voice  sank  to 
a  whisper. 

"Jean  told  you?"  Robert  was  swaying  slightly. 
His  shoulders  brushed  the  mantelshelf,  and  he  leaned 
heavily  against  it,  as  though  thankful  for  its  support. 

"She  knew  that  she  was  going  to  die,"  said  Dick, 
"and  she  told  me  of  what  you  had  done — told  me 
about  Mori." 

The  house  was  very  quiet.  There  was  no  wind  out- 
side. Robert's  breathing  was  so  hard  and  labored  that 
the  sound  filled  the  room. 

"At  first,  I  thought  that  it  was  but  the  wandering  of 
her  poor  sick  mind,  for  she  was  undergoing  a  great 
deal  of  pain;  but  toward  the  end  she  became  clearer, 
and  more  rational.  Indeed,  the  change  in  her  was  so 
marked  that  I  believed  she  had  turned  the  corner.  I 
know,  now,  that  she  herself  believed  that.  I  raised 
her  head,  and  she  lay  in  my  arms.  I  begged  her  to 
make  a  great  effort,  and  said  to  her,  'You  are  my 
bride,  Jean — don't  you  see  what  it  all  means  to  me?' 
And  then  she  told  me  the  story.  She  said  that  she  had 
meant  to  tell  me  for  a  long  while,  and  she  wanted  my 
forgiveness.  There  was  another  relapse,  and  almost 
the  last  words  she  spoke  were  'My  poor  Robert' !" 

Dick  walked  to  the  window  and  drew  aside  the  cur- 
tain. He  said  with  a  little  laugh,  vainly  forced  to  hide 
his  emotions:  "How  she  used  to  talk  of  the  mast- 
head lights,  as  they  twinkled  down  the  river  of  a 
night!" 


298  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

Robert  waited  a  moment;  then  he  called  his  friend 
back  to  the  fireplace. 

"Tell  me  this,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  quite  firm, 

"knowing  what  you  do,  is  Jean,  my  sister,  still " 

Although  he  had  commenced  it  bravely,  he  couldn't 
finish  the  sentence ;  but  Dick  understood. 

"She's  in  here,  old  fellow,"  he  said,  touching  his 
breast,  "and  she'll  always  be  there,  until  there's  no 
Dick  Morrow.  What  would  you  have  ?  Is  your  con- 
ception of  my  friendship  such  that  for  a  moment,  for 
a  second,  you  could  think  that  that  could  make  any 
difference?" 

"Thanks,"  said  Robert,  and  now  he  turned  to  pace 
the  floor.  Dick  watched  him  in  silence  for  a  while. 
Then  he  said  to  him : 

"If  I  could  go  away  with  the  knowledge  that  I  had 
brought  you  two  together  again,  I  should  feel  that 
some  good  purpose  had  been  served  by  my  coming  into 
the  world." 

Robert  returned  to  his  side,  and  shook  his  head. 

"No,  Dick,  old  fellow,"  he  said.  "What  you  have 
said  to-night  has  lifted — lifted  from  my  shoulders 
nearly  the  whole  of  that  world  you  were  speaking 
about.  But  you  can't  bring  us  together.  .  .  .  Yes,  I 
do  love  her.  I  never  loved  another  woman  as  I  loved 
her,  and  I  see,  now,  because  I  know  I  shall  have  your 
sympathy,  what  it  has  cost  me  to  watch  her  growing 
older,  to  see  myself  growing  older,  and  knowing  that 
we  cannot  become  younger,  we  cannot  retrace  our 
steps.  Dick,  there  have  been  times,  especially  when  the 
work  wasn't  going  right,  when  those  slings  and  arrows 
seemed  the  thickest — there  have  been  times  when  I 


A  NIGHT  OF  CONFIDENCES  299 

have  been  almost  tempted  to  brush  everything  aside 
and  go  to  her.  But  it's  too  late." 

Dick's  eyes  were  shining  in  the  subdued  light  of  the 
lamp.  He  clapped  Robert  on  the  shoulder  and  laughed, 
because  he  didn't  fully  comprehend  the  significance  of 
the  words. 

"Too  late  ?"  he  echoed.  "Nonsense !  You're  going 
to  be  happy,  Robert." 

"Yes,  it  is  too  late,"  was  the  reply.  "I'm  thinking 
of  the  child." 

"My  dear  fellow" — Dick  stepped  back  from  him — 
"do  you  suppose  that  for  one  minute  she  would  hesi- 
tate? She  loves  the  child  already.  You  must  have 
seen  that  yourself." 

Robert  asked  him,  almost  fiercely:  "You  haven't 
told  her,  Dick?  Say  you  haven't  told  her!  I  believe 
that  would  be  the  only  thing  I  couldn't  forgive." 

"No,  I  haven't  told  her,"  said  Dick.  "You  and  I 
are  the  only  two  living  persons  who  know." 

Robert  felt  for  the  other's  hand. 

"Good!"  he  said,  with  a  deep  sigh.  "I  can  trust 
you,  Dick." 

"But  why — why  should  you  maintain  that  attitude? 
You  cannot  doubt  that  Margaret " 

"That's  not  everything,"  said  Robert.  "I  took  my 
poor  sister's  burden  on  my  shoulders  because  I  loved 
her,  and  because  I  loved  to  think  of  the  honor  of  the 
Mac  Whinnies.  I  pledged  myself  to  protect  her — be- 
cause the  world  is  very  cruel,  Dick.  I  gave  my  prom- 
ise when  she  was  alive.  Death  didn't  relieve  me  of  it. 
It  strengthened  it.  If  you  could  go  on  loving  Jean 
after  death,  what  of  me?" 


300  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"But,  Robert,  Jean  would  never  have  permitted  you 
to  suffer  as  you  have  suffered.  If  she  was  brave 
enough  to  put  my  love  to  the  test,  do  you  think  that, 
had  she  been  able  to  foresee  all  that  was  likely  to 
happen  to  you,  she  would  have  hesitated?  Indeed, 
there  would  have  been  no  need  of  it,  because" — and 
Dick's  voice  broke  again — "because,  Robert,  the  joy 
that  is  yours  now  would  have  been  mine.  Oh !  How 
I  have  envied  you  Mori!  No,  Robert,  I  think  that 
you're  wrong  in  your  assumptions." 

"And  I  know  that  I'm  right,"  said  Robert.  "Lis- 
ten: Don't  imagine  for  one  moment  that  when  this 
happened,  when  Mori  came  into  the  world  at  Naga- 
saki and  when  Jean  went  out  of  it  a  few  months  later 
— don't  imagine  that  I  was  so  heroic  that  I  never  con- 
sidered for  a  minute  what  I  had  sacrificed.  I  did.  I 
fought  many  a  battle  with  my  weaker  self,  up  in  the 
hills.  Once — God  forgive  me! — I  looked  at  the  child 
as  a  slave  might  look  at  the  chain  that  bound  him  to 
the  galley.  That  went  on  for  some  time — meanwhile, 
there  was  plenty  of  work  to  do,  and  that  helped  to 
keep  my  mind  from  the  morbid  side  of  it.  But  one 
morning,  Dick — and  I  can't  explain  this  to  you — I 
awoke  early,  jumped  into  a  jinrikisha,  and  went  five 
miles  up-country  to  inspect  a  culvert  that  we  had  been 
engaged  on.  There  was  no  one  about,  and  while  I 
was  examining  a  sluice,  a  pinion  broke,  and  the  next 
thing  I  remember  was  finding  half  a  dozen  of  the 
workmen  kneeling  by  my  side  trying  to  pump  the  water 
out  of  me.  They  told  me  that  had  they  arrived  a  min- 
ute or  two  later,  I  should  have  been  drowned.  "While 
I  was  lying  there  on  the  bank,  I  seemed  to  hear  a  voice 


A  NIGHT  OF  CONFIDENCES  301 

calling  to  me :  'What  should  7  have  done,  if  anything 
had  happened  to  you?'  And  then,  Dick,  I  began  to 
feel  a  pair  of  soft  little  arms  entwining  themselves 
around  my  heart.  A  little  more,  and  she  was  running 
about  the  compound  and  chattering.  I  began  to  look 
for  her,  became  jealous  of  the  native  nurse,  when  the 
child  wouldn't  come  to  me  from  her  arms.  And  then 
her  face  commenced  to  creep  into  my  work,  no  matter 
where  I  was.  When  the  hammers  were  ringing  against 
the  girders,  it  was  her  voice.  When  I  sat  down  near  a 
brook,  the  singing  of  the  water  was  her  voice  again. 
And  then,  quite  suddenly,  Dick,  it  came  to  me  that  I 
hadn't  made  any  sacrifice  at  all.  I  had  been  given  a 
reward,  a  greater  reward  than  I  had  ever  dreamed  of. 
When  she  was  no  more  than  three,  we  began  to  talk  to 
each  other  just  as  though  we  were  both  grown-up.  I 
used  to  tell  her  stories,  and  it  was  wonderful — the 
light  of  understanding  in  her  little  face.  A  little  more, 
Dick,  only  a  little,  and  she  began  to  tell  me  stories. 
Ah !  that  was  the  most  wonderful  part  of  all,  the  great- 
est joy  of  all.  There  never  was  a  child  with  such  an 
imagination.  The  compound,  where  the  wistaria  and 
the  cherry  trees  blossomed  as  though  it  were  to  please 
her,  was  a  place  of  mystery,  of  fairy  lore.  She  and  I 
had  fallen  off  the  edge  of  the  world  in  our  dreams,  so 
she  imagined,  and  dropped  through  a  sea  of  silver 
cloud  to  another  world  of  flowers.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  it 
all  comes  back,  Dick,  old  man !  .  .  .  She  gave  every 
flower,  every  reed,  every  nook  in  that  compound  a 
baby  name  of  her  own,  and  sometimes — sometimes  I 
believed  that  they  answered  her  when  she  called  to 
them.  The  work,  the  struggles,  the  fever  of  competi- 


302  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

tion — everything  that  has  come  into  my  life  since  those 
dear  days — has  made  no  impression  on  those  mem- 
ories ;  they  are  still  fresh  as  though  the  dew  of  early 
morning  drenched  them  and  made  them  sweeter  than 
yesterday." 

He  quickened  his  pace  across  the  floor,  and  his 
hands  were  opening  and  shutting  convulsively,  as  the 
mind  swung  back.  The  weariness  of  the  day  slipped 
from  him;  his  eyes  were  glowing  with  the  ecstasy  of 
youth;  the  color  had  returned  to  his  cheeks.  It 
seemed  to  the  watching  friend  that  all  along  a  great 
joy  had  dwelt  behind  a  grave  and  patient  mask,  and 
was  now  finding  expression  for  the  first  time. 

"Dick" — he  had  turned  on  his  heel,  and  his  head 
was  slightly  bowed — "if  the  joy  of  parenthood  is  more 
intense,  it  must  be  grandeur.  How  it  gripped,  thrilled, 
lifted  me — the  joy  of  her  companionship !  The  strain- 
ing of  the  heart  when  she  was  out  of  my  sight — the 
bursting  of  all  that  was  in  me  when  I  held  her  in  my 
arms  of  an  evening! 

"I  wish  you  could  have  seen  that  compound  as  we 
saw  it.  There  was  the  great,  gray  ocean  that  would 
take  us  years  and  years  to  cross — it  was  only  the 
goldfish  pond ;  there  was  the  mighty  liner  on  which  we 
were  to  set  out — it  was  only  a  piece  of  cork  with  a 
feather  for  a  sail;  there  was  the  treasure  island,  just 
beyond  the  horizon,  where  the  fairies  stored  their 
jewels — only  the  rockery  that  Mimosa  San  had  made ! 

".  .  .  And  a  little  more,  Dick,  and  she  was  my 
housekeeper,  who  must  needs  shake  her  curls  and  won- 
der and  wonder  if  my  flannels  were  aired,  if  my  topee 
were  properly  ventilated,  if  my  appetite  was  all  that  it 


A  NIGHT  OF  CONFIDENCES  303 

ought  to  be,  if  I  really  ought  to  have  a  second  cup  of 
tea  at  breakfast,  and  if  ...  Oh,  God!  Don't  you 
understand,  Dick  ?"  He  stopped,  and  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands,  his  great  shoulders  shaking  to  his  sobs. 
.  .  .  "Dick,  can't  you  see  her  baby  face  as  I  unwind 
her  arms  from  my  neck  and  say  'No,  you  are  not  my 
little  girl!  I  am  not  your  daddy!  I've  been  lying — 
lying — lying,  all  these  years,  and  what  they  say  is  true. 
You  are  nobody — nobody's  child,  and  if  the  world 
chooses  to  spurn  you,  darling,  I  can't  prevent  it." 

Dick  dared  not  trust  himself  to  speak;  his  heart  and 
his  eyes  were  full;  but  he  went  over  to  the  shaking 
man  and  placed  his  arm  on  his  shoulder  with  all  the 
tenderness  of  a  woman. 

"All  right,  old  fellow,"  said  Robert,  raising  his 
head  and  smiling  with  courage.  "It's  not  going  to 
happen.  I'm  living  for  her,  my  little  girl.  Everything 
I  do  is  for  her.  I  know  what  you  would  say;  that  no 
one  would  be  so  uncharitable  as  to  give  her  needless 
pain — that  is  the  thought  of  a  Christian  man;  the  pity 
of  it  is  that  we  Christians,  as  we  call  ourselves,  always 
look  for  Christian  thought  in  the  other  man.  And 
this — 'this  namelessness  of  my  darling  is  one  of  the 
difficulties,  one  of  the  barriers  which  your  Christian- 
ity makes  no  attempt  to  surmount.  Oh,  I've  thought 
of  it,  wrestled  with  it,  given  credit  for  this,  considered 
that,  but  in  the  end  the  result  has  always  been  the 
same !  There  is  only  one  kind  of  armor  that  will  save 
her — because,  Dick,  even  the  law  sets  its  face  against 
her!  The  smug,  sanctimonious,  hypocritical  law — it 
points  its  finger  at  that  child— the  child  that  God  made 
in  His  image  and  made  so  beautiful — it  points  its 


304  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

finger  at  her  and  says,  in  effect :  'You  are  a  pariah ! 
You  are  a  symbol  of  immorality ' " 

"Robert— my  dear  old  Robert !" 

"You  cannot  get  away  from  it,  Dick.  I've  tried  to 
think  as  you  are  thinking  now.  But  it's  no  good. 
Make  all  the  allowance  you  please,  and  you're  bound 
to  come  back  to  the  starting  point.  Your  law — your 
Society — shakes  its  sentient  head ;  it  would  rather  in- 
sult God  for  giving  the  child  an  existence  than  offend 
the  susceptibilities  of  its  members." 

"You've  allowed  it  to  prey  on  your  mind,  Robert. 
It  has  become  an  obsession " 

"Nothing  of  the  sort.  It  was  an  obsession  in  the 
first  place,  but  I've  had  ten  years  in  which  to  think 
it  all  out.  That's  why  I'm  living  for  her  now.  I 
shall  have  her  educated  in  the  finest  seminary  in  the 
world;  the  investments  I  have  made  in  her  behalf  are 
gilt-edged — I  am  taking  no  risks — and  when  she  is  a 
woman  she  will  have  that  armor  at  which  I  hinted  a 
moment  ago.  Work!  Yes,  I'm  working  hard  now, 
but  I'm  going  to  work  harder  so  that  there  shall  be  no 
flaw  in  that  armor  if  I  can  help  it.  ...  Wait !  I  know 
what  you  are  going  to  say.  There  is  no  phase  that  I 
have  overlooked.  The  day  may  come  when  her  heart 
will  be  given.  .  .  .  Yes" — he  gulped  down  the  sob — 
"I  am  prepared  for  that.  I  shall  take  the  man  aside  and 
talk  to  him  just  as  I  am  talking  to  you  now.  And  if 
his  love  is  not  strong  enough  to  bear  the  test " 

He  turned  his  head  quickly,  for  Dick  had  seen  some- 
thing in  the  blue  eyes  that  brought  fear  into  his  own. 

"But  he  will  stand  the  test,"  said  Robert,  with  an 
access  of  courage  and  determination.  "There !  I  have 


A  NIGHT  OF  CONFIDENCES  805 

told  you  everything;  there  is  no  other  man  in  the 
world  to  whom  I  would  have  said  as  much,  but  you — 
you  are  Dick  Morrow,  and  that  means  such  a  lot.  Be- 
sides, you  loved — you  loved  Jean.  You  love  her  now. 
.  .  .  Dick,  I'll  never  forget  you  for  that." 

Dick's  lips  tightened ;  he  closed  his  eyes  for  a  second. 

"And  she  loved  you,"  Robert  went  on,  "although 
I  don't  suppose  you  need  to  be  told  that.  I  think  she 
loved  you  the  first  time  she  met  you — at  the  tea  house 
in  Sendai ;  because  when  we  returned  to  the  bungalow 
there  was  a  different  note  in  her  voice.  .  .  .  We 
talked  it  over,  Dick,  after  you  went.  Her  heart  was 
very  near  to  breaking — I'm  certain  of  that.  And 
later,  after  Mori  came,  there  was  no  evading  the 
shadow,  but  I  promised  her,  then,  that  I  would  speak 
to  you." 

"Don't,  Robert.    Let's  speak  of  you,  yourself." 

"Why  worry  about  me,  my  dear  old  friend  ?  I  have 
Mori." 

"If  only  Margaret  knew!" 

"She  must  never  know." 

"Is  it  fair  to  her — to  yourself?" 

"I  have  to  consider  what  is  fair  to  the  child.  Mar- 
garet, if  I  read  her  eyes  aright,  has  got  past  the  pain — 
it  happened  so  long  ago.  I  think  we  both  of  us  found 
the  palliative  in  work." 

Dick  returned  to  his  chair  near  the  fire;  he  was 
leaning  forward,  his  chin  resting  in  his  hands. 

"Time  has  made  no  change  in  your  feelings — in 
your  love?"  he  said  softly. 

"Is  it  possible?" 


306 


"And  yet  you  are  unwilling  to  put  her  love  to  the 
test  ?  You  seem  afraid  to  trust  your  secret  to  her." 

"It's  not  that,  Dick.  I  want  you  thoroughly  to  un- 
derstand my  point  of  view.  It's  Mori's  secret  as  much 
as  it  is  mine,  and  I  cannot  ask  her  to  let  me  confide 
in  another." 

"But,  Robert,  Margaret  would  be  the  last  person 
in  the  world  to " 

"I  grant  you  that.  But  you  must  look  ahead.  Mori 
will  soon  begin  to  ask  questions.  Margaret  would 
have  to  lie  to  her,  and — and  a  girl  is  so  sensitive  to 
hesitancy." 

"I  have  met  few  women  like  Margaret  Drender, 
Robert." 

"There  is  no  other." 

"And  I  know  that  she's  suffering,  just  as  you  are. 
Oh !  she's  grand,  man,  in  her  courage  .  .  .  and  life  is 
so  very  short." 

Robert  was  facing  the  door. 

"Grand!"  he  echoed.  "How  great  a  woman  can 
be!  You  heard  that  it  was  Mr.  Drender  who  saved 
me  the  other  day — when  the  situation  looked  so  black 
that  I  was  as  near  as  possible  to  sheer  desperation?" 

"I  heard  of  it,  Robert." 

"He  offered  to  place  his  works  and  men  at  my  dis- 
posal until  the  Chilian  contract  was  finished.  He 
hinted  that  the  reputation  of  his  firm  was  at  stake- 
it  was  he  who  had  given  me  my  start  in  engineering." 

"I  can  well  imagine  his  doing  it." 

Robert  gripped  the  edge  of  the  table. 

"It  took  my  breath  away,"  he  said;  "such  magna- 
nimity gives  one  a  firmer  faith  in  human  nature.  .  .  . 


A  NIGHT  OF  CONFIDENCES  307 

There  was  no  one  to  bring  his  message,  save  Mar- 
garet herself.  She  came — she  came  like  a  vision  in  a 
dream.  One  moment,  I  was  crushed,  defeated.  I  felt 
that  the  whole  world  had  turned  its  back  upon  me. 
And  then  the  door  opened,  and  she  was  standing  there 
with  compassion  in  her  beautiful  eyes.  She  gave  me 
her  father's  letter,  and  conveyed  an  expression  of  his 
sympathy,  and — and — oh !  you  can't  get  into  my  mind, 
Dick." 

"I  can— I  can." 

"The  men  were  clamoring  at  the  gates.  I  fancied 
that  they  might  guess  the  object  of  her  visit,  so  I 
rowed  her  across  the  river  to  'Jarrowside.'  .  .  .  Dick, 
it  seemed  so  strange,  so  ludicrous,  that  we  should  be 
sitting  in  that  boat,  talking  to  each  other  as  though  we 
were  merely  acquaintances.  You  cannot  imagine  how 
hard  I  had  to  fight  with  myself.  .  .  .  Will  she  ever 
forgive  me?" 

"If  she  learned  the  truth — yes;  if  not,  what  can 
you  expect  ?  You  should  have  told  her  long  ago." 

Robert  flung  out  his  hands  despairingly. 

"How  can  I  hope  to  make  anyone  understand  ?"  he 
exclaimed.  "I  know  thaft  my  actions  throughout  must 
convey  an  impression  of — of  stupidity;  but  ponder 
the  circumstances,  Dick,  and  you  will  find  a  reason 
for  them.  You  may  suggest  that  when  Jean  died  I 
became  a  free  agent — well,  I  have  told  you  of  my 
thoughts  of  Mori.  You  may  say  that  when  I  returned 
to  England,  it  would  have  been  the  right  and  proper 
thing  to  go  to  Margaret  and  .  .  .  But  you  overlook 
the  fact  that  I  had  slighted  her,  brutally  insulted  her. 
And  then  there  was  the  difficulty 


308  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Of  the  lie  you  caused  to  be  published?" 

"Enough,  Dick!  There's  nothing  to  be  gained  by 
going  over  the  old  ground,  although  I'm  better  for 
having  told  you  all  this.  Now,  let's  talk  about  your 
plans." 

"I'm  sailing  in  a  few  weeks'  time.  I'm  not  certain 
of  the  date/' 

Robert  went  back  to  the  fireplace. 

"Why  don't  you  settle  down?"  he  asked  persuasive- 
ly. "Why  not  stay  with  me  ?  I'll  do  anything  to  keep 
you  at  home." 

"Thanks,  Robert.  I'm  not  an  invalid  yet;  and  I 
couldn't  stand  the  rattle  of  the  hammers  in  your 
yard." 

"The  same  independent,  crazy  old  Dick !" 

"Wait  till  I  make  the  acquaintance  of  Yellow  Jack, 
or  lose  a  leg  to  an  alligator,  or  get  snake-bite  so  bad 
that  I  can't  walk  without  crutches — then  I'll  take  up 
my  abode  with  you." 

"I  never  met  a  man  like  you.  I  don't  think  you'll 
ever  come  to  an  anchor." 

"Not  so  long  as  the  engines  keep  going,  Robert." 

"And  yet,  you  get  nothing  out  of  it — this  restless 
wandering  from  swamp  to  swamp.  Do  you?" 

"No" — very  quietly — "nothing  save  peace — forget- 
fulness."  He  was  staring  at  the  ceiling,  and  the  big 
eyes  were  glistening  again. 

"Ah,  yes !"  Robert  sighed.  "But,  before  Jean  came 
into  your  life " 

"I  was  a  wanderer.  I'll  tell  you  why.  Somewhere 
in  the  world  there  is  a  foster-brother  of  mine.  I 
wronged  him,  misjudged  him,  while  we  were  at  col- 


A  NIGHT  OF  CONFIDENCES  309 

lege  together,  and  he  went  away — no  one  knows  where. 
Then  I  discovered  my  mistake,  and  since  that  day  I 
have  been  looking  for  him.  .  .  .  Good  night,  Robert." 
He  was  at  the  door  before  Robert  could  open  his 
lips.  "I'll  be  round  to  see  Mori  to-morrow  or  the 
following  day.  Don't  trouble  to  get  up.  I  can  let 
myself  out." 


CHAPTER    XIII 
DICK  MORROW'S  GOOD-BY 

THAT  parting  from  Dick  Morrow  left  a  deeper 
impression  on  Robert's  mind  than  any  other  he 
could  remember;  there  was  something  pro- 
phetic about  it,  and  presentiments  disturbed  him  as  he 
paced  to  and  fro.  The  study  seemed  strangely  empty 
and  lonely. 

"I  wonder  if  he  meant  it — the  going  away?"  he 
muttered  to  himself.  "I  wish  that  I'd  called  him 
back." 

Although  the  hour  was  late,  he  sat  down  and  wrote 
a  long  letter  to  his  old  friend,  begging  him  to  refrain 
from  making  any  arrangements  to  leave  the  country 
until  they  should  have  an  opportunity  of  further  dis- 
cussing the  matter.  "Mori  and  I  would  miss  you  more 
than  I  could  say,"  he  wrote,  "but  even  if  my  friend- 
ship must  not  stand  in  the  way  of  what  you  believe  to 
be  your  duty,  try  to  strain  a  point  in  her  favor.  How 
is  she  to  get  along  without  you  ?  I  want  you  to  watch 
her  grow  up  into  womanhood,  Dick,  and  (perhaps  this 
is  only  sentiment  engendered  by  our  talk  to-night)  I 
should  like  to  think  that  if  anything  happened  to  me, 
say,  in  the  works,  there  would  still  be  Uncle  Dick  on 
whom  she  could  lean,  to  whom  she  could  turn  for 
advice.  To-morrow,  I  shall  tell  her  that  in  you  she 

310 


DICK  MORROW'S  GOOD-BY  311 

has  a  kind  of  sanctuary  whose  beauty  is  never  to  be 
doubted." 

But  he  was  not  allowed  to  tell  Mori.  There  was  a 
telegram  awaiting  him  at  the  works  the  next  morning : 
"Don't  say  anything  to  my  little  sweetheart.  Am 
writing. — DICK." 

And  nearly  a  week  passed  before  he  heard  from 
him  again. 

"The  Wakasa  Maru  is  going  out  on  the  second  tide 
— to-morrow  night — and  I'm  going  with  her.  For 
three  days  I  have  been  haunting  the  river.  The  smell 
of  the  tarred  ropes  is  in  my  nostrils;  my  heart  is  just 
aching  for  the  East.  We  weigh  anchor  at  nine  o'clock 
— willjou  come  down  to  have  a  last  word?  Please 
don't  bring  my  little  O  Mori  San.  Think  of  all  the 
sweetest  stories  you  have  told  her  during  the  last  ten 
years,  and  invent  a  sweeter  to  deceive  her.  I  shall 
write  to  her  from  the  land  of  chrysanthemums  and 
sunsets  and  muddy  creeks." 

Robert  went  down  to  Tilbury,  and  the  Dick  Mor- 
row he  encountered  on  the  foredeck  of  the  ship  was 
far  different  from  the  one  he  had  known  a  few  days 
before.  There  were  not  many  passengers,  for  which 
fact  Dick  expressed  his  gratitude. 

"I  couldn't  stand  them  on  this  trip,  old  boy,"  he  said 
to  Robert.  "I  want  to  be  alone.  Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  Robert  replied.  "I  don't  think  that 
I  shall  ever  get  into  the  depths  of  your  mind." 

Dick  tried  to  laugh  in  the  old,  old  way,  but  there 
was  no  ring  in  it.  Subterfuge  was  not  for  that  mo- 
ment. 


812  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"You  will,  some  day,  Robert,"  he  said,  slipping  his 
arm  under  that  of  his  friend  and  urging  him  into  a 
promenade  of  the  deck.  "I  want  to  be  by  myself  on 
this  occasion,  and  I've  tipped  the  chief  steward  to 
give  me  a  berth  in  the  officers'  alleyway,  where  I 
shan't  run  the  risk  of  having  inquisitive  people  burst- 
ing into  my  cabin  to  smoke  their  last  pipes  of  a  night. 
You  know  the  kind  of  thing  ?  I'm  going  to  do  a  pile 
of  work — reading  up  and  so  forth.  When  I  come 
back" — he  paused — '"when  I  come  back,  I  may  sur- 
prise you  with  my  theoretical  knowledge  of  engineer- 
ing." 

He  became  more  excited  as  the  bustling  on  the 
gangway  increased,  and  he  seemed  intent  on  monopo- 
lizing the  conversation;  he  hardly  allowed  Robert  a 
word. 

"Don't  waste  time  by  asking  me  a  lot  of  questions  I 
can't  answer,"  he  said.  "I've  written  to  you — you'll 
find  the  letter  at  home,  if  your  postal  service  is  all 
that  you  boast  of — and  in  that  letter  I've  answered 
every  question  that  is  on  your  lips  now.  Don't  talk, 
old  boy;  it's  the  quiet,  reticent  Robert  MacWhinnie 
that  I  love  the  most,  and  that's  the  impression  I  want 
to  take  away  with  me.  .  .  .  What  did  you  say  to  my 
little  sweetheart?  .  .  .  No,  don't  tell  me — not  yet. 
Write  to  me  at  Colombo,  and  I  shall  look  for  a  line 
when  we  touch  Singapore,  and  if  the  agent  doesn't 
bring  me  a  letter  at  Hongkong  I  shall  cable  to  learn 
the  reason.  .  .  .  The  child  is  in  my  mind,  Robert;  I 
can't  get  her  out  of  it.  ...  Couple  of  old  fools— 
aren't  we? — you  and  I.  ...  Say,  Robert,  I'm  just 
dying  to  get  back  to  the  East  Take  that  in  the  right 


DICK  MORROW'S  GOOD-BY  313 

way.  It  sounds  like  rudeness,  but  it  isn't  anything  of 
the  sort.  ...  I  was  at  headquarters  yesterday — the 
Missionary  Society — and  they  told  me  that  there's 
more  work  awaiting  me  than  when  I  first  went  out  as 
a  young  man.  That's  what  I  want — work — gruelling 
work — and  I  don't  care  what  kind  of  work  it  is.  ... 
Look  out,  Robert,  there's  a  sling  coming  over  the  side, 
and  these  beggars  don't  know  the  elementary  rules  of 
running  a  winch " 

"Dick— Dick " 

"Don't  talk — there's  a  good  fellow."  In  the  flare 
of  the  arc  lamp  hung  against  the  mast,  Dick's  face  was 
unnatural  in  color,  and  his  eyes  were  brighter  than 
ever;  he  was  trembling  with  excitement,  but  stead- 
fastly refused  to  allow  Robert  a  word.  "I've  obtained 
a  berth  on  the  starboard  side.  Cunning  old  sea-dog — • 
eh  ?  When  we  strike  the  monsoon  I  shall  have  all  the 
air,  so  that  there'll  be  no  need  to  get  on  deck  for  it. 
Oh !  there  isn't  a  single  thing  forgotten :  acid  drops  to 
quench  the  thirst  until  we  reach  the  'line,'  where  limes 
are  to  be  bought,  boracic  powder  to  keep  the  prickly 
heat  away,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  ...  We  ought  to 
make  a  good  trip,  Robert.  How  I  wish  you  were 
coming  with  me.  .  .  .  No,  no,  I  didn't  mean  that. 
You  have  to  stay.  Your  work  is  here — and  what  work 
it  is!  And  you're  going  to  be  happy,  Robert — happier 
than  ever  you've  been  in  the  past.  Bless  me,  I  shan't 
be  surprised  if  there  isn't  a  letter  at  Hongkong.  In 
your  happiness,  you'll  forget  me  as  you  would  an 
uneventful  yesterday.  ...  Oh !  I  shall  miss  this  ham- 
mering on  the  river.  I  used  to  think  that  silence  was 
grandeur,  but  I  know  different,  now.  .  .  .  Skip  that 


THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 


hawser.  .  .  .  You  don't  want  to  inspect  my  cabin,  do 
you?  No,  it's  chockablock  with  books  and  packages 
and  what  not.  I'm  an  untidy  beggar,  but  there'll  be 
plenty  of  time  to  put  things  shipshape  before  we  strike 
the  Inland  Sea.  .  .  .  I'll  write  to  you,  Robert  —  every 
other  mail  —  and  I  shall  always  be  thinking  of  you, 
and  of  the  hammering.  What  a  glorious  chorus  when 
the  beggars  are  rattling  the  rivets  home  !  I  was  watch- 
ing a  kiddy  throw  red-hot  'uns  to  a  riveter  yesterday. 
Never  saw  such  skill.  Oh  !  I  shall  miss  the  noise  when 
I'm  out  yonder  —  away  up  in  the  hills  where  you  smell 
the  sulphur  and  wait  in  silence  for  a  mountain  to  yawn 
and  spit  out  its  fire.  Awful  silence  —  isn't  it?  You 
remember.  Reminds  you  of  —  of  a  blind  elephant  try- 
ing to  pick  up  a  needle  in  a  dead  world.  Eh?  .  .  . 
There  goes  the  bell.  Visitors  ashore.  Off  you  go. 
.  .  .  Here  !  Give  me  another  grip  -  " 

There  was  a  great  lump  in  Robert's  throat,  but  as 
he  grasped  the  extended  hand  and  held  it  tight,  he 
managed  to  burst  out  : 

"Dick!  You  dear  old  roamer.  You  haven't  given 
me  a  chance.  I  can't  let  you  go  like  this." 

"All  visitors  ashore,"  Dick  urged.  "Can't  you  hear 
the  little  Japanese  quartermaster  with  his  hayaku! 
hayaku!" 

He  hurried  his  friend  to  the  side,  almost  thrust  him 
on  the  gangway,  then  ran  quickly  along  the  deck  to 
the  stern,  where  he  leaned  over  the  rails  and  waved  a 
handkerchief.  The  men  on  the  wharf  cast  off;  the 
great  ropes  splashed  into  the  water,  to  be  hauled  out 
by  the  little,  brown-faced,  slanty-eyed  deck  hands  gath- 
ered in  the  bows.  The  engine  telegraph  clanged,  the 


DICK  MORROW'S  GOOD-DY  315 

propellers  gurgled  as  they  smote  the  water;  the  Blue 
Peter  on  the  mainmast  straightened  itself  out  in  the 
wind;  the  ship  backed  slowly  into  midstream;  from 
the  direction  of  the  steerage  came  the  whining  of  a 
melodeon,  and  in  the  stern  a  white  handkerchief  flut- 
tered. 

Robert  turned  away.  Very  little  was  needed  to 
make  him  play  the  woman.  He  forced  a  path  through 
the  crowd  of  laborers  and  people  who  had  come  on  a 
similar  errand  to  his  own,  and  as  he  reached  the  gate- 
way a  soft  hand  was  placed  on  his  arm. 

Margaret  Drender! 

She,  too,  had  come  out  of  the  press  from  the  wharf, 
and  her  eyes  were  filled  even  as  his. 

"You  came  to  see  him  off?"  Robert  offered  his 
arm,  and  she  did  not  hesitate  to  take  it.  "And  you 
didn't  see  him?" 

"Yes,  I  saw  him,"  she  replied,  brushing  the  unruly 
hair  from  her  eyes.  "I  was  here  an  hour  ago.  Poor 
fellow !  He  could  scarcely  contain  himself ;  and  usual- 
ly he  is  so  calm  and  deliberate  in  his  movements." 

Robert  nodded.  "He  hurried  me  ashore,"  he  said, 
"as  though  he  were  glad  to  get  rid  of  me." 

"He  told  me" — they  were  crossing  the  road  toward 
the  railway  station — "he  told  me  that  you  would  be 
here." 

"And  you  waited?"  Robert's  left  hand  lifted  to 
where  hers  was  resting  on  his  forearm.  He  was  con- 
scious of  a  great  peace — of  the  approach  of  a  great 
joy.  She  made  no  reply  to  his  remark.  They  reached 
the  entrance  to  the  station. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

OUT   OF   BONDAGE 

ON  the  way  to  Fenchurch  Street  Station,  they 
had  the  carriage  to  themselves,  and  yet  they 
had  almost  covered  the  distance  before  either 
of  them  spoke.  Frequently,  he  caught  himself  peeping 
furtively  at  the  big  understanding  eyes,  and  it  was 
hard  to  remember  that  he  was  no  more  than  an  ac- 
quaintance— a  friend.  The  imagination  that  had  built 
so  many  fairy  worlds  for  Mori  was  barren  when  it 
tried  to  forget  the  years,  and  all  that  happened  in 
those  years,  between  the  night  when  he  wound  his 
arms  around  her  neck — when  her  dear  arms  encircled 
his,  and  they  looked  to  the  future  like  two  privileged 
ones  gazing  into  paradise.  There  was  a  streak  of  gray 
— a  very  faint  one — in  the  dark,  wavy  hair;  it  should 
not  have  been  there,  considering  her  years;  but  grief 
and  regret  find  their  reflection  in  gray;  there  were 
tiny  creases  across  the  dear  forehead  that  had  been  so 
white  and  smooth,  and  there  was  a  calm  in  the  repose 
of  the  features  that  comes  only  from  resignation.  He 
was  sitting  very  close  to  her ;  he  could  feel  the  warmth 
of  her  shoulder;  and  had  he  dared  incline  his  head, 
never  so  slightly,  he  could  have  brushed  her  hair  with 
his  lips.  .  .  . 

"I  wanted  sympathy,  and  you'd  gone !" 

316 


OUT  OF  BONDAGE  317 

Poor  Jean!  Her  white  face  was  looking  at  him 
through  the  darkened  window  of  the  carriage;  and 
she  was  smiling  so  encouragingly;  it  was  as  though  she 
knew  he  was  nearing  the  happiness  for  which  she  had 
prayed  even  when  the  film  was  drifting  across  her 
vision  and  the  promise  of  everlasting  peace  was  numb- 
ing the  pain  of  the  fever.  .  .  . 

Margaret  looked  up. 

"You  will  miss  him — Mr.  Morrow?" 

"One  makes  so  few  friends,"  he  said,  "that  it  will 
be  a  long  while  before  the  pain  of  his  absence  is  for- 
gotten." 

"And  Mori— the  little  girl.  How  she  will  miss  him! 
He  loved  her  very  dearly." 

The  train  came  to  a  stop.  He  assisted  her  to  alight. 

"If  you  will  wait  here  a  moment,"  he  said,  "I  will 
endeavor  to  get  a  cab." 

He  left  her  on  the  platform  for  a  while,  her  cheeks 
as  flushed  as  his.  When  he  returned  she  was  in  the 
center  of  a  throng  that  had  just  poured  from  a  second 
train,  so  that  he  was  compelled  to  force  his  way  to  her 
side.  In  the  circumstances,  it  was  only  natural  that 
he  should  place  his  arm  around  her  waist ;  it  was  only 
natural  that  she  should  press  closer  to  him.  The  joy 
of  the  protector  moved  him.  Once,  he  had  to  bend 
low  his  head  to  catch  an  inquiry  from  her  lips;  his 
cheek  touched  hers,  slightly  brushed  it — no  more — but 
his  heart  beat  the  faster.  They  reached  the  waiting 
cab.  The  driver  leaned  forward  for  instructions. 
Robert  turned  to  Margaret,  and  there  was  a  plea  in 
his  voice  as  he  said :  "Mori  may  be  awake.  It  will 
not  take  a  moment  to  look  in  and  see  if  she  is  all 


318  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

right."  Margaret  inclined  her  head,  and  stepped  into 
the  cab;  he  seated  himself  beside  her,  but  the  words 
that  he  wished  to  utter  refused  to  break  through  his 
lips. 

She  spoke  to  him  about  the  work,  the  effects  of  the 
recent  trouble  with  the  men,  the  promise  of  lasting 
success  that  seemed  to  be  held  out  to  MacWhinnie 
Brothers.  And,  then,  as  Dick  had  done,  she  inquired 
the  intentions  of  the  head  of  the  firm  so  far  as  the 
younger  brothers  were  concerned.  He  told  her  that 
they  were  returning,  that  a  fresh  start  was  to  be  made, 
and  that  he  was  looking  to  the  future  with  a  hopeful 
heart.  She  remained  quiet  for  a  moment,  then  in  a 
breath  she  whispered :  "Do  you  never  think  of  your- 
self?" 

Before  he  could  reply,  the  cab  stopped.  He  alighted, 
and  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"It  is  not  very  late,"  he  said  entreatingly.  "Will 
you " 

She  smiled  back  at  him,  and  held  out  her  hand  so 
that  he  might  assist  her  from  the  cab. 

"If  Mori  is  awake  I  should  love  to  give  her  Mr. 
Morrow's  message,"  she  said,  but  her  eyes  were  more 
eloquent. 

He  dismissed  the  driver,  and  led  the  way  through 
the  garden  to  the  hall  door.  The  old  housekeeper 
placed  a  crooked  finger  on  her  lips.  Mori  was  asleep, 
but  she  had  left  a  note,  in  which  she  requested  to  be 
awakened  as  soon  as  he  returned.  Robert  handed  the 
note  to  Margaret  and  laughed  softly. 

"Presently,"  he  whispered — "presently."  He  opened 
the  study  door,  and  she  followed  him  in. 


OUT  OF  BONDAGE  319 

"This  belonged  to  Dick  as  much  as  to  me,"  he  said, 
and  his  voice  was  shaking  because  of  her  presence. 
"Shall  I  open  the  windows?  Dick  was  never  com- 
fortable unless  his  pipe  was  burning." 

"I  love  it,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  that  lit  up  her 
face.  "I  can  almost  see  him  sitting  there,"  and  she 
pointed  to  the  chair  opposite. 

He  followed  her  eyes,  and  nodded,  slowly. 

"There  never  was  a  man  like  Dick,"  he  said,  with 
a  sigh.  "It  will  be  very  lonely  without  him." 

"You  have  Mori!"  She  loosened  the  fur  around 
her  neck;  he  took  it  from  her  and  placed  it  on  the 
couch. 

"Yes,  I  have  Mori,"  he  said  softly,  "but  time  slips 
along  so  quickly  that  .  .  ."  He  shook  himself,  as 
though  he  didn't  care  to  dwell  on  the  subject.  "If 
you  stand  here  at  the  window,"  he  said,  brushing  aside 
the  curtain  as  he  spoke,  "you  may  see  Mr.  Drender's 
house  on  the  other  side  of  the  river." 

She  left  her  chair  and  came  to  where  he  was  stand- 
ing. 

"Mori  blows  you  a  kiss  every  night,"  he  whispered, 
and  again  his  lips  failed  him. 

"I  came  to  see  Mori,"  she  reminded  him. 

"Ah,  yes!"  he  said  absently,  then  looked  again  at 
the  window.  His  courage  came  with  the  rush  of  the 
wind,  just  as  it  did  that  night  at  the  gate  of  "Jarrow- 
side."  The  "Margaret!  Oh,  Margaret!"  was  full 
and  bold  before  he  wheeled  from  the  curtains.  The 
door  of  the  study  was  standing  slightly  ajar;  he 
stepped  quickly  across  the  floor  and  closed  it.  She 
was  still  standing  by  the  window;  her  eyes  wore  a 


320  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

startled  expression,  but  not  one  of  fear;  her  bosom 
was  heaving  with  emotion;  her  hands  were  held  out 
feebly,  nervously.  He  stopped  two  paces  from  her 
and  hung  his  head. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said  dully.  "It  overcame  me — 
just  for  the  moment — I'm  sorry — I've  frightened 
you." 

She  opened  her  lips,  and  her  voice  was  very  sweet 
and  tender. 

"Frightened  me!  You!"  She  slipped  her  hand 
into  his — his  back  was  toward  her.  "Why  should  I 
be  frightened?  Mr.  Morrow  told  me  that  you  had 
something  to  say  to  me — something  of  great  impor- 
tance." 

He  raised  his  eyes. 

"Dick  said  that?    Why  should  he  say  that?" 

"I  believe  he  was  thinking  of  Mori.  .  .  .  We  talked 
a  great  deal  about  the  child  the  last  time  he  was  at 
'Jarrowside.' ' 

His  big  eyes  were  blinking  pathetically. 

"Help  me,"  he  said  weakly. 

"Mori  is  growing — in  a  little  while  she  will  become 
a  young  woman." 

"I  am  going  to  send  her  away — to  the  Continent — 
soon." 

"How  lovely  for  her!" 

"How  lonely — for  me !" 

"And  Dick  said" — she  might  not  have  heard  his 
sighing  words — "that  it  was  just  now  that  she  needed 
most  the  companionship  of — of  a  woman.  You  un- 
derstand— don't  you?  You  can't  always  be  with  her. 
And  I — 1  should  dearly  love  to  have  her  near  me. 


OUT  OF  BONDAGE 321 

She  might  come  so  often  to  'Jarrowside.'  We'd — 
we'd  share  her,  and " 

"Margaret !" — his  lips  were  a-tremble ;  now  he  was 
holding  both  her  hands — "Margaret,  how  you  humble 
me!" 

"Humble  you!  Humble  you!"  She  half  turned 
from  him.  "How  can  you  say  that?" 

"I,  who  have  brought  so  much  sadness  into  your 
life " 

"Was  it  all  sadness  ?"  She  was  stronger  than  he — 
her  words  came  with  greater  resolution,  greater  firm- 
ness. 

"I  broke  your  life,  and  yet  you  are  here,  in  my 
lonely  house,  ready  to — to '" 

"Pity  you  in  your  loneliness." 

Their  eyes  met;  they  read  each  other's  mind.  His 
face  was  set,  tensely,  but  hers  was  soft  and  beaming 
with  the  light  of  forgiveness. 

"Margaret,  how  I  loved  you !"  And  her  head  moved 
slightly  forward  till  he  was  unable  to  see  her  face. 
"How  I  loved  you  in  those  dear  dead  days!"  He 
crushed  back  the  sobs  that  were  choking  him,  and 
kissed  her  hair — kissed  it  almost  roughly.  She  did 
not  stir ;  it  was  as  though  for  ten  weary  years  she  had 
been  waiting  for  this  moment,  and  dared  not  raise  her 
eyes  lest  it  should  be  unreal.  "Margaret!"  he  cried 
again,  and  his  voice  was  all  broken  with  sobs,  "no 
man  ever  loved  a  woman  as  I  loved  you." 

"Loved  me,  Robert?" 

"No,  as  I  love  you  now — now,"  and  he  raised  her 
head  and  compelled  her  to  look  him  in  the  face.  "Oh, 
Margaret,  if  only  you  could  come  back  into  my  life! 


322 


If  only  I  could  set  back  the  universe  and  make  you 
forget  the  dead  years !" 

"Not  dead  years,  Robert,"  she  murmured,  again 
hiding  her  burning  face  against  his  breast.  "There 
were  the  memories  to  live  for,  and  I  never — never 
wholly  doubted  you." 

"Hush !"  His  cheek  was  resting  against  her  bowed 
head.  "Don't  speak,  Margaret,  lest  this  should  be 
what  indeed  it  seems — a  dream — the  dream  that  has 
been  with  me  for  ten  long  years;  the  dream  that  has 
kept  my  eyes  set  toward  the  sun  even  when  the  shad- 
ows were  most  inviting." 

"Poor  Robert !"  she  whispered. 

"No,  not  poor,  Margaret,  if  this  moment  be  real — 
if  this  is  you  I  am  holding  to  my  heart." 

"I  have  always  been  close  to  your  heart,  Robert — 
always." 

"Even  in  the — the  dark  days  ?" 

"Even  in  the  darkest  days." 

"When  you  believed  that  I  had  wronged  you  ?" 

"You  have  never  wittingly  wronged  anyone  save 
yourself." 

"I  left  you  without  a  word — a  word  that  might 
comfort  you — might  help  you  to  understand." 

"I  understand,  now— I  have  understood  for  some 
time." 

He  cried  out  as  with  pain;  she  felt  his  arms  slide 
weakly  from  her  shoulders. 

"You — understand !  You  have  understood  for  some 
time  ?  Margaret !" 

She  lifted  her  head,  and  her  hands  crept  lovingly 
around  his  neck. 


OUT  OF  BONDAGE 823 

"Robert" — her  eyes  were  glistening  in  the  soft  glow 
of  the  lamp — "for  many,  many  years  I  only  guessed 
the  truth- 
He  closed  his  eyes,  and  reached  for  the  hands  that 
encircled  his  neck. 

"Dick— Dick  told  you?" 

"Told  me  what  I  already  knew;  told  me  only  two 
days  ago." 

"God  forgive  you,  Dick." 

"Robert,  you  don't  mean  that?"  And  now  the  tears 
were  racing  down  her  cheeks.  "Dick  loves  you.  I 
never  knew  that  one  man  could  love  another  so  dearly 
until  I  met  him " 

"He  gave  me  his  word  of  honor — • — "  His  eyes 
were  still  closed ;  there  was  unutterable  agony  in  every 
line  of  his  face. 

"Robert!  Is  his  honor  sullied  because — because  I 
know  the  truth?" 

He  opened  his  eyes,  and  they  dwelt  on  hers. 

"Margaret,  how  great  you  are!"  he  breathed. 

"If  only  you  had  trusted  me,  there  would  have  been 
no  dead  years,  as  you  call  them." 

"I  promised  Jean — my  poor  broken-hearted  Jean; 
and  then — then  there  was  the  child  to  think  of." 

"Hush!"  she  said  gently.  "I  know  all  that's  pass- 
ing in  your  mind — all  that  has  passed  through  it.  I 
know  what  you've  suffered  :  Dick  told  me.  Oh,  if  you 
had  seen  him  two  nights  ago  when  he  sought  me  out 
'to  ease  an  aching  heart,'  as  he  put  it !" 

"I  understand,  now,  why  he  was  so  anxious  to  send 
me  ashore.  Oh!  you  great,  big-hearted  Dick.  .  .  ." 


THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 


And  then,  for  the  first  time,  he  noticed  the  letter  on 

the  mantelshelf. 

"He  said  that  he  had  written  to  me  -  " 

She  reached  for  the  letter  and  handed  it  to  him.    He 

read  it  aloud,  the  while  Margaret  remained  standing 

by  his  side  : 


"My  DEAR  OLD  ROBERT. — I  have  broken  the  promise  I 
gave  you,  because  you  sought  to  invest  me  with  a  silence 
that  would  mean  the  blighting  of  two  lives.  It  is  amazing 
to  me,  now,  that  I  should  have  been  here  in  England  so 
long  without  discovering  where  your  heart  was  buried. 
You  big,  foolish  fellow !  Did  you  think  that  I  was  going 
to  stand  idly  by  and  watch  you  two  steal  like  sad-faced 
ghosts  into  the  evening  of  life,  when  a  word  of  explanation 
was  all  that  was  required  to  make  you  happier  than  I  ever 
hope  to  be? 

"Robert  MacWhinnie,  you  should  go  down  on  your  knees 
and  beg  her  forgiveness.  Was  she  ever  to  be  doubted?  Do 
you  really  think  that  a  woman  so  good  as  she  is  would 
bring  one  moment  of  pain  into  the  life  of  my  little  darling, 

0  Mori  San?     I  dare  not  call  you  Quixotic,  because  you 
liave  been  so  extraordinarily  rational  in  other  matters — most 
other  matters;  but  it  is  astounding  that  you  should  be  pre- 
pared to  set  her  great  love  on  one  side.    It  may  be  a  trait  of 
Scottish  character — I  cannot  say.    I  meant  to  bring  you  two 
together  again,  even  if  it  cost  me  the  best  friend  I  have 
ever  known.     Anyway,   I  am  free  from  your  displeasure, 
unless  you  take  it  into  your  head  to  charter  a  swifter  vessel 
and  catch  us  up. 

"Go  to  her,  man.  The  child  needs  her  sympathy.  And 
you  need  the  sympathy  of  a  woman  like  Margaret  Drender. 

1  am  going  back  to  Japan.    I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  return. 
I  am  going  to  build  a  bungalow  away  up  at  Sendai.     My 
heart  is  there — now;  it  has  been  there  for  ten  years.     My 
dear  Robert,  if  you  loved  as  I  have  loved,  you  would  go  to 
her  in  sackcloth   and  ashes,  and  you'd  bow  your  head  in 
humility. 

"And,  Robert,  if  you  have  any  friendship  left   for  me, 


OUT  OF  BONDAGE 325 

don't  let  my  little  sweetheart  forget  me.  Tell  her  that  Uncle 
Dick  has  gone  back  among  the  chrysanthemums  and  the 
lotus  and  that  he's  always  thinking  of  her.  And,  E.obcrc, 
I  would  like  to  think  that  if  the  world — the  world  you  talked 
about  that  night — were  unkind  to  my  Mori,  you  would  show 
her  the  way  to  sanctuary  .  .  .  here !" 

The  letter  fluttered  to  the  floor.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  irresolute;  then  he  held  out  his  hands  toward 
her. 

"Do  you  forgive  me  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  breaking  whis- 
per. 

And  as  she  rested  her  head  against  his  breast,  as  she 
had  done  a  little  while  before,  he  tenderly  stroked  her 
hair  as  though  he  would  efface  the  faint  touches  of 
gray. 

"It  has  been  a  long,  long  night,  sweetheart,"  he 
said,  "but  the  gold  of  morning  has  come  at  last.  I 
gave  you  pain — you  whom  I  loved  better  than  life 
itself — but  God  gave  you  strength  and  work  to  soften 
that  pain."  He  paused;  the  sobs  were  back  in  his 
throat.  "God  gave  me  you  to  soften  mine." 


CHAPTER   XV 

THE   PRODIGAL   BROTHERS 

THE  two  prodigals,   Jamie  and  David,  awaited 
their  brother  in  the  study,  and  Donald,  the 
little  father,  was  seated  between  them,  nursing 
his  hat  on  his  knees  and  whiling  away  the  time  by 
recalling  their  many  sins  of  omission.    He  had  brought 
them  back,  as  he  might  have  brought  two  truants  back 
to  school,  and  although  Robert's  letter  to  them  had 
been  couched  in  the  kindliest  terms,  the  old  man  would 
not  allow  them  to  derive  any  comfort  or  self-assurance 
from  it. 

"I  canna  say  what  ye  expect" — and  he  wagged  his 
head  to  and  fro — "but  if  Robert  were  tae  put  ye  each 
to  a  lathe,  it  wad  be  nae  mair  than  ye  desarved." 

From  several  sources  he  had  learned  the  truth  about 
the  dissolution  of  partnership;  but  what  was  more 
significant  to  his  mind  was  the  news  that  Robert  was 
likely  to  become  the  son-in-law  of  John  Drender.  This 
was  a  moment  when  humility  was  not  only  meet,  but 
advisable. 

"Ye're  two  men,"  he  told  them,  "and  yet  ye've  be- 
haved like  a  couple  o'  bairns.  When  I  was  your  age,  I 
was  a  marrit  man  wi'  a  family,  an'  recognized  my  re- 
sponsibilities. Frae  what  I  can  see  of  it,  the  two  of 
ye  havena  growed  out  of  y'r  babyhood  yet.  .  .  .  And, 

326 


THE  PRODIGAL  BROTHERS  327 

David,  who  valeted  ye  this  morn,  wi'  y'r  pink  tie  and 
pretty  striped  suitin'?  A  nice  figure  ye'll  cut  at  a 
lathe,  i'  them  duds.  Not  that  Robert  is  like  tae  put 
ye  to  a  lathe.  I  dinna  see  that  ye  can  expect  as  much 
as  that.  Mebbe  he'll  keep  ye  runnin'  errands  in  the 
yard  for  a  while,  just  to  knock  the  nonsense  out  o'  ye. 
Now,  when  he  comes  in,  let's  hae  no  dour  faces,  and 
no  pretendin'  that  ye' re  something  that  ye're  not. 
Ye've  had  y'r  lesson,  and  ye've  paid  for  it — then  dinna 
lose  the  benefit  of  it.  Like  as  no,  Robert'll  be  for 
gi'eing  ye  a  good  lacin' — and  he's  just  the  man  tae  do 
it.  I  canna  think  of  aught  that  I  might  say  for  ye  in 
mitigation,  so  if  ye're  turning  over  onything  in  y'r 
minds,  best  get  it  ready." 

And  then  Robert  came  down  the  stairs.  He  came 
in  with  a  rush,  with  a  cheery:  "Splendid,  boys!  I 
didn't  expect  you  so  early.  There's  nothing  like  beat- 
ing the  clock.  And  you,  father!  You're  looking 
younger!  How's  Ballyhoustie,  and  mother,  and  all 
the  old  neighbors?" 

He  was  wringing  their  hands,  and  capering  about 
them  as  though  he  hadn't  seen  them  for  years,  and 
had  been  longing  all  the  while  to  meet  them.  The 
greeting  was  the  reverse  of  what  the  brothers  had  ex- 
pected, and  they  remained  standing  like  two  culprits 
come  to  judgment.  They  were  waiting  for  sentence, 
for  any  leniency  which  he  might  be  disposed  to  exer- 
cise, and  this  boisterous  good  humor  only  increased 
their  nervousness.  The  little  father  tried  to  put  them 
at  their  ease  by  assuring  Robert  that  never  in  all  his 
life  had  he  come  upon  two  more  glaring  instances  of 
downright  ingratitude  and  unappreciated  chances. 


328  THE  HOXOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"Robert,  man,"  he  said,  "they're  no  expecting  any 
fatted  calf.  I  could  tell  ye  what  they  desarve,  but  it 
wad  tak'  up  too  much  time.  The  thing  is,  what  are  ye 
gaein'  tae  do  wi'  them?" 

"Do?"  Robert  laughed.  "It's  already  done.  We're 
taking  on  fifty  additional  hands  this  morning,  and  I 
want  you,  Jamie,  to  go  down  and  look  them  over. 
You  will  find  MacGowan  in  the  office.  He's  had  his 
instructions,  and  he'll  bring  you  up  to  date,  as  it  were. 
You  and  I,  David,  are  going  over  a  couple  of  esti- 
mates together,  and  I  should  say  that  before  noon  we 
shall  thoroughly  understand  each  other." 

David,  having  greater  courage  than  his  brother 
Jamie,  raised  his  eyes  to  meet  Robert's. 

"You're  heaping  a  deal  of  coals  on  our  heads,  Rob- 
ert," he  said  sullenly. 

"Ay,  an'  ye  desarve  it,"  chimed  in  the  little  father. 

"We  came  here  to  accept  any  ultimatum  that  you 
might  feel  disposed  to  lay  down." 

"Ay,  that  ye  did" — from  Donald. 

"We're  men,  Jamie  and  I,  but  I  don't  think  that 
either  of  us  had  any  sense  of  manhood  until  your  letter 
came,  a  few  days  ago." 

Robert  dropped  his  hands  on  his  brother's  shoul- 
ders. 

"What  are  you  havering  about,  David?"  he  said, 
with  a  laugh.  "Didn't  I  tell  you  that  if  anything 
should  go  wrong  on  the  Clyde — and  I'm  bound  to 
confess  that  I  was  very  apprehensive  at  the  time — 
didn't  I  say  that  the  old  signboard  would  be  up  above 
the  gates,  and  that  I  should  welcome  your  return  ?" 

"Two  spoilt  bairns,"  said  the  little  man ;  but  his  de- 


THE  PRODIGAL  BROTHERS  329 

light  at  Robert's  attitude  showed  itself  in  the  dancing 
of  his  eyes.  "Jamie,  hae  ye  naethin'  to  say?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Jamie — "I  haven't  the  strength  to 
say  anything,  except  this :  we've  had  a  bitter  experi- 
ence, and  I  think  it  will  do  us  both  good." 

"That's  right,"  said  Robert,  "and  you're  going  to 
bring  that  experience  to  bear,  so  long  as  you  are  a 
member  of  the  firm  of  MacWhinnie  Brothers.  Ex- 
perience is  more  valuable  than  all  the  good  intentions 
you  might  think  of  in  a  lifetime."  He  turned  to  his 
father.  "You  haven't  said  a  word  about  Thomas. 
Where  is  he?  I  haven't  set  eyes  on  him  since — ' 
since •  You  know,  I  suppose." 

"Dinna  fash  y'rsel'  about  Tammas,"  said  the  little 
man.  "If  I  ken  onything  about  human  nature,  he's 
tryin'  to  digest  the  porridge  that  I  gave  him  for  his 
supper  the  last  time  I  set  eyes  on  him.  Tammas,  by 
now,  ought  to  be  in  sight  of  the  west  coast  of  Africky. 
He's  gone  out  there  tae  preach  Equality  to  the 
heathens,  an'  if  I  ken  onything  about  heathens,  Tam- 
mas will  need  tae  do  very  little  preachin'.  .  .  .  How's 
the  wee  maid,  Robert  ?" 

"Never  better  in  her  life,"  said  Robert.  "She's 
going  away  next  month — going  to  a  school  in  Ger- 
many. Miss  Drender  is  going  to  take  her,  and  you 
can  well  understand  that  the  packing  is  a  most  impor- 
tant business.  She'll  be  down  presently,  father.  I 
told  her  last  night  that  you  were  coming.  You'll  mark 
a  wonderful  change.  A  thorough  little  woman,  and 
as  brave  as  brave  about  the  going  away.  But  I  know 
who'll  suffer  the  most." 

"Ay,"  said  the  little  man.    "Ye'll  be  awf'y  lonely." 


330  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

And  he  looked  at  Robert,  as  though  he  expected  some 
news  about  Margaret. 

Robert  changed  the  subject. 

"You'll  find  the  place  pretty  much  as  when  you  left 
it,"  he  said  to  Jamie.  "I  don't  think  you  can  do  better 
than  go  down  there  at  once,  to  get  your  bearings.  We 
shall  expect  you  back  here  to  dinner  to-night.  Then 
we  can  talk  about  the  future." 

The  little  father  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"Then  ye're  no  gaein'  tae  put  them  on  the  lathes, 
Robert?" 

"No,"  said  Robert,  laughing  outright.  "But" — the 
pause  kept  them  very  still — '"I'm  going  to  put  them  on 
the  salary  list." 

Donald  MacWhinnie  sighed. 

"That's  the  way,  Rob,"  he  said.  "I  was  awf 'y  feared 
ye  were  gaein'  tae  put  them  back  on  the  board.  Did 
ye  hear  that,  you  two  ?  Ye're  on  the  salary  list ;  and 
let  me  tell  ye  this :  when  ye're  on  the  salary  list  ye  hae 
to  wor-rk,  because  if  ye  dinna  wor-rk  ye're  soon  off  the 
salary  list." 

The  two  brothers  went  down  to  the  works,  leaving 
their  father  with  Robert. 

"Robert,"  said  the  little  man,  "I  canna  say  ony- 
thing.  I  feel  like  greetin'." 

"Why  should  you  say  anything  at  all?"  said  Rob- 
ert cheerily. 

Donald  passed  a  hand  over  his  wrinkled  forehead. 

"Somethin'  comes  back  into  my  mind  same  as  it 
was  said  yesterday.  It  was  when  ye  were  a  lad,  an'  y'r 
mither  an'  I  were  arguin'  an'  arguin'  about  what  we 
should  do  for  ye.  And  your  mither — one  of  the  grand- 


THE  PRODIGAL  BROTHERS  331 

est  women  that  ever  breathed,  Robert,  even  if  her 
tongue  be  a  little  sharp  now  an'  then — ye'r  mither  was 
say  in'  that  she  wondered  if  bairns  were  the  blessing 
some  wad  hae  ye  believe.  I  mind  her  words :  'Ye  gae 
through  the  Valley  o'  the  Shadow/  she  said,  'tae 
bring  them  into  the  wor-rld ;  ye  work  an'  ye  slave  for 
them  when  they're  bairns,  and  when  they're  growed 
up,  they  gae  awa',  the  lassie  wi*  th'  first  laddie  that 
sets  his  cap  at  her,  an*  th'  laddie  wi'  th'  first  pair  o' 
blue  een  that  looks  at  him/  And  I  remember  I  said 
tae  her:  'Tell  me,  Martha,  how  much  has  a  parent 
a  richt  to  expect  f rae  her  bairns  ?'  .  .  .  Ye'll  no  think 
me  haverin',  Robert  ?" 

"No,  father,"  said  Robert.  "I  think  that  I  thor- 
oughly understand  what  is  in  your  mind." 

"I'm  glad  of  it,  Robert,  because  it'll  save  me  sayin' 
a  lot  that  mebbe  I  couldna  say  properly.  We've  ex- 
pected mair  than  eno'  f  rae  ye,  an'  I  suppose  we  shall 
gae  on  expectin'  ...  an'  gettin'.  Man,  ye  hae  me 
greeting.  Sometimes,  I've  thought  that  we'd  hae  been 
happier  if  we'd  kept  tae  the  lathe— a'  of  us." 

"I've  tried  to  do  my  best  to  make  you  happy,"  said 
Robert  gently. 

"Of  course  ye  hae.  Ye've  been  tryin'  all  the  while. 
Ye've  never  let  up,  an'  it's  no  your  fault  that  we 
havena  been  happy.  Eh,  Rob,  if  ye  could  hae  seen  y'r 
mither's  face  when  I  went  hame  a  month  ago  an'  told 
her  the  cottage  was  ready " 

"The  cottage,  father?" 

"Ay.  We've  sold  the  house,  and  the  main  part  o' 
the  furniture.  It  was  no  for  the  likes  o'  we,  Robert. 
Y'r  mither  was  never  happy  in  it.  'Gi'e  me  the  cot- 


332  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

tage,  Donald,'  she  kept  on  sayin',  'where  a  body  can 
lay  her  hands  on  what  she  wants/  Rob,  man,  she 
never  left  the  cottage,  in  spirit,  an'  if  ye'd  seen  her 
face  that  night  when  we  got  back,  an'  when  she  was 
settin'  on  the  edge  o'  th'  fender,  ye'd  hae  known  the 
meanin'  o'  real  joy.  It  was  like  gaein'  hame  after 
bein'  in  the  wilderness.  Ay,  we  sold  the  house.  I 
made  a  clear  fifty  on  the  deal,  Robert.  Y'r  mither 
wad  tell  ye  that  she  did  it,  but  ye  know  what  y'r 
mither  is.  And,  look  ye  here:  There's  the  balance 
o'  the  purchase  money.  I've  paid  for  the  cottage.  It's 
ours.  And  we've  sent  Tammas  and  his  wife  abroad. 
There's  the  balance,  Robert  MacWhinnie,  so  dinna 
shake  y'r  heid  an'  say  ye'll  no  tak'  it.  I'm  as  inde- 
pendent as  ye  are.  But  if  in  y'r  hairt  ye  wad  like  tae 
do  one  thing  for  me,  I'll  be  etarnally  grateful." 

"Anything  you  like  to  ask,  father !" 

The  old  man  lowered  his  voice  to  an  anxious  whis- 
per. 

"Hae  ye  got  an  old  lathe  in  the  shop  that  ye're  no 
usin'  ?  Now  that  we  hae  no  bairns,  the  cottage  is  awf 'y 
roomy,  an'  if  I  could  hae  a  lathe  awa'  up  in  the  attic 
where  y'r  mither  couldna  interrupt  me,  I  could  work 
out  an  idea  o'  mine  that'll  mean  a  fortune  tae  the  man 
that  puts  it  on  the  market." 

Robert  raised  his  hand. 

"Mori's  coming  down  the  stairs,"  he  said.  .  .  . 
"You  shall  have  that  lathe,  father,  even  if  I  have  to 
carry  one  up  to  Ballyhoustie  on  my  back." 


CHAPTER   XVI 

TO-MORROW 

MORI  had  run  ahead,  and  was  across  the  lawn 
and  halfway  through  the  study  window  be- 
fore Robert  reached  the  gates  of  "Jarrow" 
side";  he  heard  her  twang  an  imaginary  samisen, 
heard  a  deep  gruff  Northumbrian  voice  cry  out: 
"Come  in,  hinny!"  and  then — Margaret  was  by  his 
side.  She  had  been  waiting  among  the  laurels,  and 
had  allowed  the  child  to  slip  past  her. 

"I'll  call  her  back,"  she  whispered,  her  fingers  tight- 
ening on  his.  "I  think — only  think — that  he  has  some- 
thing very  important  to  say  to  you.  ...  Mr.  Masters 
is  going  abroad — his  health  is  not  very  good.  .  .  . 
There !  Go  in  quickly."  She  hurried  him  to  the  door, 
and  called  out:  "Mori!  Mori,  darling!"  The  child 
came  to  her  side  at  once,  and  she  led  her  away  into  the 
garden. 

Old  John  Drender  was  sitting  with  his  back  to  the 
Window,  so  that  his  face  was  in  shadow  when  Robert 
hesitated  on  the  threshold. 

"Come  in,  MacWhinnie,"  said  the  old  ironmaster. 
"It's  a  long  time  sin'  I  set  eyes  on  ye.  How's  the  work 
going?  And  have  you  had  any  more  trouble  with 


your  men?' 


333 


334  THE  HONOR  OF  HIS  HOUSE 

"It's  that  I  came  to  see  you  about,  sir,"  said  Robert, 
his  cheeks  aflame. 

"Ay,  ay."  Mr.  Drender  pulled  out  his  pipe.  "Shut 
that  door,  MacWhinnie,"  he  said,  in  a  furtive  way. 
"She's  cut  me  down  to  three  pipes  an  afternoon,  as  if 
a  body  could  exist  on  that." 

"You  might  buy  a  larger  pipe,  sir" — anxious  to  sus- 
tain the  spirit  of  the  moment. 

"So  I  might.  Never  thought  of  it.  There  ye  are, 
the  brains  of  youth  again.  I  must  be  getting  old. 
.  .  .  What's  the  news  ?" 

Robert  stirred  uneasily. 

"I  came  to  thank  you  in  person,  sir,"  he  began,  but 
the  old  man  checked  him. 

"Still  on  about  that  strike,  MacWhinnie?  Yester- 
day's gone." 

"I  shall  never  forget  you  for  it,  sir." 

"Do  you  think  I  did  it  for  ye,  alone?  .  .  .  Got  a 
match  handy?  .  .  .  Nice  thing  if  ye'd  made  a  mess  of 
it.  'One  of  John  Drender's  old  apprentices' !  That's 
what  they  would  have  said.  I  know  'em.  Now,  let's 
hear  how  you're  fixed  for  the  future.  .  .  .  They  tell 
me  ye've  brought  those  brothers  of  yours  back  to  the 
river.  Ah,  well,  I  can't  find  it  in  my  heart  to  blame 
you!  There's  a  deal  of  good  in  both  of  them,  if  you 
know  how  to  bring  it  out." 

"I'm  certain  of  that,  sir.  David  has  already  shown 
me  that  the  engineer  was  hidden  behind  a  little  affec- 
tation." 

"A  deal  of  good  if  you  bring  it  out.  Don't  be  too 
lavish  with  your  praise,  keep  him  in  place,  and  give 
him  a  kick  in  the  ribs  once  a  fortnight — that's  the  way 


TO-MORROW  3.-J5 


to  make  a  man  of  a  snob.  I  like  ye,  Robert  MacWhin- 
nie.  Ye've  been  doing  some  fine  work  on  the  Thames 
sin'  ye  came  back.  I  wish  I  could  find  a  man  like  ye 
to  take  Jim  Masters'  place.  He's  going  away." 

Robert  made  no  comment. 

"And  I'm  too  old  to  go  down  there  every  day. 
Seems  as  though  the  old  firm  will  have  to  drop  out. 
.  .  .  Ay" — Robert  had  opened  his  lips — "we  might  do 
worse,  MacWhinnie.  Amalgamation  would  mean  put- 
ting younger  blood  into  Drender  and  Masters,  and 
more  experience  in  MacWhinnie  Brothers.  We'll  talk 
it  over  another  time.  .  .  .  Do  you  see  that  bairn  in 
the  garden?" 

Robert  went  to  the  door  immediately  and  called  to 
Mori ;  then  he  stole  gently  in  the  direction  whence  the 
child  had  come.  The  afternoon  sun  was  sinking  away, 
leaving  a  trail  of  gold  on  the  face  of  the  slow-moving 
river;  the  tide  was  turning,  and  a  faint  wind  came 
whimpering  from  the  sea. 

Margaret  asked  no  question;  everything  was  to  be 
read  in  his  open  face.  And  he  asked  no  question  of 
her.  What  John  Drender  knew — he  knew,  and  .  .  . 
shrieks  of  childish  laughter  were  pealing  through  the 
study  window. 

Near  the  gate,  the  lovers  paused;  his  arms  were 
around  her  as  on  that  night  ten  years  before.  The  twi- 
light deepened ;  the  breeze  trailed  a  wisp  of  dark  hair 
over  her  eyes ;  tenderly  he  brushed  it  away. 

"Margaret"  .  .  .  he  held  her  face  between  his  hands 
"something  your  father  said— a  moment  ago " 

"Yes,  Robert,"  she  whispered,  her  eyes  on  his. 


336 


"  'Yesterday's  gone/  he  said." 

"Gone,"  she  murmured. 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her. 

"And  thus — thus  we  await  to-morrow," 


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